


What Happens Here

by Marasa



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Emotional Sex, Fighting, Flirting, Fluff, Foursome, Frottage, Gambling, Hurt/Comfort, Las Vegas, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attack, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marasa/pseuds/Marasa
Summary: The Monkees find themselves in Las Vegas for a gig. After a poorly played bet, however, they must find $80,000 lest they be lost to Sin City forever.
Relationships: Micky Dolenz/Davy Jones/Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	What Happens Here

**Author's Note:**

> I've worked on this fic for a long time and I’m so excited to finally share it with you. Do not hesitate to let me know which parts were your favorite or if you enjoyed it! I really do appreciate all support. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Disclaimer: Gambling as portrayed in this fic is *extremely* generous. I took a lot of liberties, including how ‘easy’ some of these games are. This was for the efficiency of the narrative and not reflective of real life.

The wedding was really cute.

They didn’t know the couple all that well, had only met them once before back in California after one of their house-party shows.

The couple had rushed the stage hand in hand as soon as The Monkees put down their instruments. They were blinding in their happiness, golden and glowing. They said they were eloping to Las Vegas and would love some groovy tunes for the small ceremony.

“That’s very sweet,” Mike had said, “but we don’t exactly have the money to go out to Las Vegas-“

“We can pay you,” the bride-to-be said.

Micky swooped in with a wide smile. “Well if that’s the case, The Monkees-“ he bent at the waist, “are at your service.”

They drove out to Las Vegas in the Monkeemobile, each of them taking a turn driving except Davy who struggled to see above the steering wheel.

By seven, they were within the city limits.

By eight, their new friends were married.

The newlyweds couldn't stop smiling as they slow-danced together. At times it was hard for The Monkees to sing considering they too were hypnotized by the sight of true love to remember what they were singing.

Mike had always denied love like that to exist. It didn’t matter that he could feel it like a fire in his own chest. It was too complicated to address, would put too much at stake.

But these two acquaintances made love look so easy; they knew each other so well it was like a secret language between them.

It was as frightening as it was captivating.

By nine, it was time for the newlyweds to depart.

They were going to the mountains for their honeymoon. Neither of them had ever gone skiing, but they said love was about sharing new experiences with each other. The groom shook their hands and the bride hugged each of them, even gave Davy a kiss on his cheek.

By ten, The Monkees were on the Strip, having decided to officially kick off the first vacation they had ever gone on together.

Now that they were twenty-one, twenty-four in Mike’s case, there were clubs to go to and drinks to try. Plus, they could finally enjoy the ups and downs of the many casinos brightly shining down the Strip.

That was when the trouble started.

“I know a bit about Texas Hold ‘Em,” Mike said as they wandered through a sparkling casino with gold ceilings and smoky carpet.

“Well of course you do,” Davy said. “I believe that roulette wheel to be calling out to me.”

“There’s no skill in that, though,” Micky said. “That’s luck.”

Davy winked. “Well I’m the luckiest one in the bunch, aren’t I?”

They only had seventy-eight dollars to bet but after thirty minutes, that seventy-eight was one-sixty, and after another thirty minutes, three-eighty.

They soon lost track of time. Nothing mattered but the growing stack of poker chips in front of them and the endless alcohol in their hands.

“You’re pretty good, Mike!” Davy said.

“Told you,” Mike said, swiping a glass of liquor from a passing tray. “It’s in my DNA.”

“Just another plus of being Texan, huh?”

“What’s the other plus?” Peter asked.

Micky placed a hand over his heart and tilted his head endearingly, speaking in a heavy Southern accent. “Southern hospitality, of course.”

“Is that what he calls it?” Davy said, and Mike scowled at him when Davy pinched his cheek.

Their luck grew exponentially as the night went on. Winning at blackjack was effortless. Roulette was nothing to worry about. Craps was an absolute afterthought.

Tired, intoxicated and with their pockets heavy with casino cash, the four of them ducked into an empty aisle of slot machines to finish their drinks and dispose of some loose change.

Mike was sat on the stool in front of a slot machine, nearly delirious with the blinking lights on each pull of the lever. Peter leaned liberally against his entire back. Mike could feel his lips murmuring silently against the nape of his neck, his breath tickling Mike’s heated skin and making him shiver. Micky leaned against Mike’s left arm, boneless and hot with the alcohol in his glass and stomach. Davy was sat on Mike’s right knee, short and light enough that he was barely noticeable.

They were in a trance as they watched the wheels roll inside the machine and the lights pulse in a rainbow of color. And for a moment, they thought the voice they heard addressing them was nothing more than another of the machine’s features.

“You’re all pretty lucky, aren’t ya?”

A man in a blue suit stood to their right. The gold watch on his wrist was diamond-encrusted. He was round but refined.

“Yeah, we can't believe it either,” Micky said and tipped back his drink.

The man smiled. He sat on the empty stool next to them.

“It happens to everyone at least once,” the man said, low and serious after a moment of relative silence. “Four on the same night is quite extraordinary.”

“What happens to everyone?” Davy said as Mike yanked the lever down again.

“A night of extreme luck.”

They turned to look at him, interested.

“This town is my town. I’ve seen this happen more than a few times,” the man said. “It’s like nothing can go wrong. The stars are aligned just for you. The wheel of fortune has landed on you four tonight. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

The slot machine buzzed suddenly and rang out as it awarded them a $1000 jackpot. They fumbled to catch the coins being spat out at them.

The man stood from his stool, something dark glittering in his eyes. “Come on, boys. We’ll put that luck to some better use.”

It happened so fast, they could barely recall what happened next. Suddenly they were leaving the casino and getting into Horace’s limo, the man in the suit, and drinking champagne and then they were entering in through a side staircase in an alleyway and into a basement, smokey and crowded.

They’d gotten themselves into plenty of misadventures during their time together, so a secret casino in the nation’s gambling capital wasn’t that unbelievable.

Horace sat Mike down at one of the green velvet tables and fed him copious amounts of alcohol, so much that Micky had to say something, even though he was as equally fucked up.

“You want him to play don’t you?” Micky snapped, a protective hand held up between the drink and Mike’s mouth, and eventually coming to rest on Mike’s throat like he could guard it from the alcohol he was swallowing.

“I’m groovy,” Mike slurred, eyes fluttering as Peter’s fingers swept the slightly sweaty hair from his forehead.

And he was for the first two games.

He put down a little bit of his own money and doubled it within a couple of rounds.

“You’ll play for us on the next hand,” Horace said into Mike’s ear, hands braced on his shoulders as he stood behind him. “We’ll give you a piece off the top, but you’ll do good for us and triple our bet, won’t you?”

Some alcohol slipped from in between Mike’s lips when he nodded clumsily, not really understanding what in the hell was happening.

The dealer dealt him a hand. The numbers were blurry. Mike couldn’t focus. He’d rather get out of here. Where was Micky? Davy? Peter? Peter… Mike liked having Peter’s fingers in his hair…

Everyone revealed their hand. Mike laid his cards down three seconds later.

“Darn…”

Losing the hand was more than a minor slip up, apparently, because then Mike was being yanked backwards by his jacket and out of his chair. He landed smack on the ground but before he knew it, he was up the stairs and out on the street with Davy, Peter and Micky. Mike reached for them and they reached for him and Mike tried his best to barricade them from the curses and yelling following them back into the limo.

“What,” Davy dared to say above the chaos, “what happened?”

Horace, red in the face and furious, pointed a meaty finger at Mike sitting directly across from him.

“You lost us $75,000 dollars!”

“What!?” Mike suddenly felt sick and a fraction more sober.

Horace gritted his teeth and balled up his fists. “Listen here, you! All of you!”

The Monkees clung to each other, specifically all of them clinging to Mike as he crossed his elbows and tried to guard them behind his gangly arms.

Horace narrowed his eyes menacingly.

“You will be paying us back. Every dollar and then a little extra for being such fuck ups! Do you understand!?”

They nodded vehemently together. “Yes, sir!”

Horace dropped them off at a random casino with a curse thrown at them and an empty briefcase they would be filling up in the near future if they wanted to keep their lives.

Lights flashed above. The streets were crowded with drunken hooligans having the time of their lives. The Monkees started down the sidewalk in the vague direction of where the night had started in stunned silence.

Mike kept swallowing the saliva flooding his mouth. He was practically shivering. The world felt upside down, like this was a nightmare he was waiting to wake from.

“What do we do now?” Davy finally said.

“We could just leave,” Micky rambled, near hysterical. “Get in the car and just go-“

“We can’t leave.”

They stopped walking and turned to where Peter stood on the sidewalk some paces behind them. His head was down. “I told them where we live.”

Davy groaned. _“Oh, Peter.”_

“By accident! I didn’t mean to. But he asked me about the ocean and the beach and it just slipped out- I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” Mike said, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”

“$75,000,” Micky said as they began walking again. “ _$75,000!_ Where are we gonna get that kind of money?”

“Well, we weren’t doin’ that bad tonight.”

“Are you kidding? You lost $75,000!”

“I mean before that,” Mike said, still drunk but now feeling nauseous. “We did it tonight, we just gotta keep doing it.”

“And if we lose everything?” Micky said.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Then Mike threw up outside of a souvenir shop.

Peter rubbed his back while Micky laughed awkwardly and apologized to passers-by and Davy resorted to drunkenly dancing some feet away as a ‘distraction.’

* * *

They made a loose plan of attack.

They’d gamble small amounts of what they had and grow their monetary funds until they could play at bigger tables.

Mike and Micky were best at card games while Davy did surprisingly well at roulette and other chance-based games.

Peter had yet to show any adequate talent or interest in any specific game, more of an observer than anything. They decided it was best for him to remain as such, at least for now.

Any escape plan was nonexistent; they didn’t want to focus on the possibility of losing what little they had.

* * *

Their winnings after a week had provided their stay at a moderately-priced hotel and casino, much better than the smoky motel room they had been staying in.

This development was deemed ‘essential’ after some discussion. They didn’t exactly feel safe at the motel on the outskirts of the Strip and more importantly, it was disgusting.

They woke multiple times to the sound of fighting and screaming either outside or through the walls. There were stains on the ceiling and the sheets were ripped. And Peter was beginning to make nice with the family of cockroaches behind the toilet.

Before it got out of hand, they decided to find lodging elsewhere. They reasoned there was no way they’d be able to perform their best during the day if they were sleep-deprived and itchy with bedbugs and-or lice.

“You have to spend money to make money, y’know,” Micky said, getting dressed while doing his best to not touch anything.

“Don’t I know it,” Mike grumbled, yawning obnoxiously loud as he pulled on his hat.

Their new room was in a hotel on the end of the Strip. It wasn’t quite a suite but it was already bigger than any hotel room Mike had ever been in.

Mike had never had the luxury of staying at hotels like this in his youth. His family was big. Their money was scarce.

Mike sat on the foot of the bed. The sheets were cool and smooth beneath his hands. He had been somewhat downcast these past few days but now he allowed himself some happiness at this.

A soft bed. Warm lamplight. A clean shower.

It felt like a good omen.

“Are y’all done yet?” he called to the bathroom crowded with his bandmates brushing their teeth and shaving.

They emerged a second later, fresh and in good spirits. Their clothes, recently cleaned in the laundry room downstairs, smelled of lavender detergent.

“How do we look?” Micky asked, his hair combed and the top button of his shirt unbuttoned. “Good?”

Mike’s face was hot. “Y- Yeah.”

Micky patted his racing heart as he passed. “Go get dressed.”

“I’ve been tryin’-“

“Less talk, more walk.”

Mike just shook his head as he slipped into the finally vacant bathroom that was already worlds above their previous one. Under the warm spray of water washing away the filth and soreness of the last few days, Mike sighed his contentment.

“Nez,” Micky said from the other side of the door. “We’ll meet you in the lobby, all right? We’re gonna get a drink.”

“Yeah, all right.”

When Mike finally got downstairs some time later in a shirt still warm from the dryer, he found his friends were long done with their drinks and were now using the lobby’s phone.

He could tell by their tense body language and the rushed movement of his lips against the receiver that whatever conversation they were having, it was not going well. And quite frankly, Mike didn't appreciate anyone bothering his boys like that.

Mike slid over on long, lanky legs as Davy mouthed to him, _‘Babbitt!’_ Micky nodded and handed him the phone.

“Hello?”

_“Mike? Where the hell are you!?”_

Babbitt rambled on in a fury about how he had dropped by the pester them about rent only to find the place empty. Where were they and how long would they be gone and were they moving out finally? What was he supposed to think when they got up and left without a word and without paying their rent for the past three months?

Davy chewed his bottom lip. Peter furrowed his brow in worry. Micky watched, impressed, as Mike weaved half-truths about how the whole reason they were out here in Las Vegas was to make money, that they weren’t moving out, and that _no,_ of course they weren’t blowing it all at casinos and hotels and restaurants. Who do you take us for, Mr. Babbitt?

Micky snickered and Mike smiled in soft amusement as Davy, in his distracted anxiousness, twisted one of the buttons of Mike’s shirt between his fingers.

Mike made some promises, sprinkled in some blatant flattery and then tilted the phone in their direction.

“Everything’s settled. Now say bye-bye, fellas.”

“Bye,” Peter and Davy said together as they practically pressed against Mike’s front.

“Don’t worry about us, Mr. Babbitt,” Micky added as he leaned in closer to the phone. “We’re just taking a tiny vacation.”

_“Vacation!? For how long-“_

“Expect the rent soon, all right? Okay, goodbye!”

Mike hung up the phone. An air of relief came over them.

“Glad that’s done,” Micky murmured.

“You don’t think he’ll actually rent out our pad, do you?” Davy said as they entered into the casino adjacent to the lobby.

“I won’t let him do that,” Mike said. “Let’s have some fun tonight, all right? And we’ll wire him the rent money in the morning. Depending on how well we do, maybe even send him rent a couple of months in advance.”

“Or we can get a room at Caesars Palace?” Davy said, his voice doing that soft lifting thing that made Mike want to blush.

Mike smirked instead and draped an arm around Davy’s shoulders. “Or we can get a room at Caesars Palace.”

* * *

Mike had fallen into the leadership role headfirst and much harder than ever before.

It was a role they knew him to be capable of but they never anticipated just how natural and gorgeous it looked on him.

All it took was a couple of weeks in Las Vegas and suddenly Mike stood a bit taller— _how was that even possible?—_ and radiated a protective energy that drove away those drunken men and women who flirted with them at card tables with a single stern gaze.

Tonight was like any other at the Texas Hold ‘Em table. Micky wasn’t particularly good at it, unlike blackjack, but he liked keeping Mike company. He’d put down the minimum bet to get a hand, lose a couple of times but then end up winning back whatever he had previously lost.

The two of them preferred to prattle at tables while Davy was particular to craps, the theatrics of it drawing his performative spirit. Peter didn’t mind accompanying any one of them, though at times he appeared tired or wary of the scenes unfolding in front of him.

Mike and Micky found fun together. They always had. Las Vegas was no different. There was a game playing out on the velvet but simultaneously there was a private game being played out just between themselves.

There had been a Friday night the week before when Mike and Micky had taken on new personas. Thankfully the casino was loud and the others at the table too drunk to pay their silly game any mind.

They acted like strangers when they sat next to each other at the baccarat table. Mike had made his accent thicker and added a black cowboy hat to his attire. Micky had settled for an airy button down and an old pair of prescription glasses. They had never met before that night and they told stories of things that had never happened to them in places they had never been.

And for some peculiar reason, they found themselves slip easily into flirting.

Mike would flex his biceps as he peeled up his top card and Micky would snicker and swoon with a sip of his jack and coke, saying in the lazily amused tone of a college-educated intellectual, “Oh, Mister Rugged Cowboy, you just doubled your bet!”

“And I’ll triple it if you stick ‘round a bit longer, honeybun,” Mike said with a wink.

Neither thought too much of it, and neither of them wanted to, but by the end of the night they were speaking inches away from the other’s face, halfway off their stools and giggling like schoolboys.

Tonight, though, they were themselves.

They smiled and clinked their glasses of alcohol together and talked about some new ideas they had for songs and melodies.

The conversation wasn’t any less sexually-charged, however. This didn’t necessarily come as a surprise to either of them.

It was becoming clear that they turned each other on. Even this relaxed type of scene held an intimacy. The mood was chill and loose, less outright silly and more genuinely engaging.

When Micky told a story of how he had recently written down a righteous tune that had been stuck in his head only to realize it was the jingle from an old cereal commercial, Mike laughed with him and rested a hand on his knee under the table.

Mike was immediately afraid he might have gone too far. The four of them touched each other frequently but not like this, intimate and hidden and possessive.

He bit the inside of his cheek at the corner of his lip and watched Micky’s face carefully with an open, sensitive expression.

And when Micky smiled at him, Mike exhaled the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The dealer’s decks grew thin. The money was flowing, although a little slower than usual. It was fine; they were going to go with the flow and enjoy being next to each other.

It all seemed to be going well until an older man in a tacky jacket seated on the other side of Micky addressed him.

“Where’re you from?”

This guy was drunk. Micky could smell it on his breath.

“Um. California.”

“Cali?” he slurred. “I coulda guessed as much; you got that sun-kissed surfer look. Do you model?”

Micky frowned as the guy began to lean in a bit closer to him. “No-“

“I know plenty of people who can get you some good modeling and acting work out in Cali. Every form of media- I got numbers I can call up right now.”

“No thanks.”

“You got a face for TV, baby.” The man leaned in closer. Micky winced away from him but not quick enough to prevent his greedy hand from landing on his thigh, which felt disgusting in comparison to when Mike did it. “You got a body for TV, too?”

_“You get your hand off of him right now.”_

Micky blinked and suddenly Mike was leaned over him, a finger pointed inches away from the drunk man’s face.

The man flinched back on instinct, drawing his hand from its place on Micky’s leg.

“E- Excuse me?”

The older man’s lecherous gaze met Mike’s blistering one and Mike gladly took it if it meant his beady eyes were off Micky.

“You heard me.”

“Mike,” Micky said and he didn’t know what he meant by it. A part of it sounded like, ‘ _Please don’t make a scene,’_ while another part of it might sound like, _‘Fuck this guy up.’_

The card dealer looked a little wary but continued the game.

“And where are you from?” This guy wouldn’t let it go. He was targeting Mike now, obviously irritated and raring for a fight that Mike might or might not indulge him in, Micky wasn’t sure. “Not from California, obviously.”

Mike didn’t answer. He continued playing in silence.

The man turned back to Micky. “How ‘bout you, beautiful? Have you always lived in Cali?”

Mike’s eyes snapped up to his again. Micky shivered; if looks could kill, the guy to his right would be nothing but a smudge.

 _“Ah.”_ The older man smiled. “So that’s how to get your attention. You only care if I got something to say about him. Who are you? Huh?” The man’s gold rings glistened against his glass of scotch. “His pimp?”

Mike’s nostrils flared. His jaw tightened.

“Hey, Cowboy,” the man said, leaning in, “how much for a night with your boy, huh?”

Mike stood abruptly from his chair. Micky did too, hands on Mike’s quivering biceps as he held him back.

“Okay, Mike! We’re going.”

The dealer cashed them out quickly with a curt suggestion to leave before they did anything they regretted.

Micky took the advice without any argument.

Pushing Mike felt more like trying to push a giraffe around slot machines and craps tables. He leaned back against Micky’s hands on his shoulder blades and tripped over his own boots more than a few times.

The Las Vegas air hit them across the face as soon as they stepped out of the casino. It was a little warm but then the wind blew lightly with a refreshing coolness that began to calm Micky.

But Mike couldn’t stand still.

He appeared distressed as he paced back and forth on the sidewalk. Panicked. Scared, maybe.

“He doesn’t get to talk to you like that! The disrespect! A- And touching you like he knows you? You clearly didn’t want him to, but that didn’t stop him, no siree!”

“Have a smoke, babe.”

Mike’s hands were shaking as he took the spliff from Micky’s fingers. He took a deep drag, held it with a pained look on his face, exhaled.

“ _Ooh_ , that makes me mad.”

“He’s a drunk asshole, Mike. A typical shitty Hollywood agent cat. He probably won’t remember any of that shit in the morning.”

“That’s no excuse.”

Mike took another drag. Micky glanced around, thankful he couldn’t see any cops within sniffing vicinity.

“I’m sorry.”

Micky turned back to his tall counterpart. “For what?”

“I’m sorry on his behalf,” Mike said, hiding behind the smoldering smoke he held at his lips. “You shouldn’t be made uncomfortable like that. I should’ve put a stop to it sooner. I’m sorry.”

“No apologizing,” Micky murmured. “Really.”

Mike handed Micky the smoke. Micky took a drag.

“I don’t wanna go back in there,” Mike said.

“Good call.” Micky dropped the spliff, ground it out beneath his new pair of loafers. “Take me to dinner, sport.”

Mike quirked an eyebrow at the new name.

“I mean,” Micky said, but it wasn’t Micky, it was some dapper fellow with a slightly unidentifiable, posh accent, “I’ve never been to Las Vegas before. And I’m sure you know all the best places to eat, what with you being a world-class musician and all.”

Mike smiled a lovely smile showing off his crooked teeth and he looked down and away without even thinking about it and Micky wanted to take his chin and tilt his face back up so he could see him, so Micky did because this character wasn’t afraid to.

Mike looked lighter, relieved all of a sudden. He tilted his head a little on Micky’s finger as he looked down at him with the Strip’s neon rainbow of lights twinkling in his eyes.

“Damn right I know the best digs in town,” Mike said in a heavy southern drawl that made Micky smile and his hands go sweaty.

His heart stuttered and his breath stopped when Mike, but not-Mike, but _absolutely_ -Mike, leaned in to whisper into Micky’s ear, breath smelling of tobacco and skunk, “I only come here all the time.”

* * *

Davy took to the high life like a cat to cream.

They were no longer staying at the end of the Strip. A particularly well-played game of blackjack had resulted in a hefty payday and at Davy’s insistence, Mike obliged his desire to live like an emperor.

And man, did he.

It was obvious to them he was always meant to live in luxury. He wore silk clothing and gold jewelry beautifully, naturally.

“My dad would’ve never let me buy any of this,” he would frequently say on his way to the checkout counter.

Blue-collar work, lower middle-class family; Davy had hinted at a harsh masculine ideology that made it difficult to live under that roof. He never really talked about it, but there were days when he’d be melancholy with a dazed look in his eye, or wake teary-eyed from a nightmare of a memory he didn’t divulge.

Mike, Micky, and-or Peter were always there to accept him against their chest, in their arms, holding him tightly for however long he needed.

That had yet to happen here; he looked happy with all this new stuff.

It worked most of the time: buy something expensive, feel good. Maybe Mike was just weird, though, because that feeling had failed to reach him at times. Sometimes it down right left him in an uncomfortable limbo of anxiety and sadness.

But then he’d go out playing again and come back with another wad of cash for Davy to blow and he liked seeing Davy smile, liked seeing him in silk even more.

They were in a dressing room at yet another expensive clothing store. Davy liked a second opinion, or at least that’s what he said; what he might have actually meant was an ‘audience.’

Micky was taking a nap back at the suite. Mike didn’t know where Peter was.

Davy stilled in front of the body-length mirror. Shirtless and suddenly quiet, he drew a hand through his hair. It was just a bit longer, falling past his ears and his bangs falling into his eyes.

He didn’t smile, didn’t even look at Mike, as he told a story about how his father had been very particular about his hair growing up. Once, he forced him to cut it, going as far to denounce him as his son until he looked ‘more presentable.’

The unsaid implication of the phrase hung heavy in the air. It made Mike bristle with irritation and hurt on Davy’s behalf.

He stood from the bench and set aside the shirts and pants he had previously been holding in his arms. He came up behind Davy at the mirror, towering almost freakishly over him.

Mike always told Davy he was too short.

Davy always told Mike he was too tall.

Goosebumps erupted down Davy’s arms and chest when Mike trailed the backs of his fingers down his shoulder.

“The day you cut your hair is the day you actually see me cry,” Mike said, twisting a strand of Davy’s hair around his finger.

Davy smirked. He leaned back against him and looked up. “Oh yeah? I just might do it then!”

And then Mike pressed his palms together and scrunched up his face in a dramatic mock cry and Davy laughed and called him all sorts of names before moving back over to the bench and picking up another silk top he had yet to try on.

* * *

Mike made sure to skim a little off the top with each payout they got from the casino to fund their new habits of excess.

Davy wanted clothes. Micky wanted accessories.

And Peter. Peter didn’t want much.

He was all smiles and that soft demeanor that melted them from inside out, but he never wanted like Micky or Davy wanted.

Sometimes Mike didn’t like talking to him.

It hurt him to feel as much but Peter had a talent for breaking down Mike’s truest desires without even trying.

Mike had been speechless when Peter asked point-blank if the reason he was so set on getting an expensive new pair of shoes was because his family couldn’t afford stuff like that for him when he was a kid.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said hurriedly, looking at Mike’s reflection in the bathroom mirror as they were getting ready for a night out on the town. “I wasn’t thinking-“

“It’s fine,” Mike said, not wanting to talk about it.

“Mike, I didn’t mean-“

“It’s okay, Peter.”

Mike had cleared his throat and tried to forget that had ever happened. Then he drank a lot that night to make sure he didn’t remember.

There was a strange little room in the casino next door that was Peter’s favorite. If he disappeared for long periods of time or wasn’t around by the end of the night, almost always he could be found in this room.

It hosted row upon row of chairs positioned in front of a huge movie screen. On it, a livestream of horse races. Bets could be made on the screens embedded in the tabletop immediately in front of any one of the chairs but Peter seemed to like watching the horses more than actually betting.

It wasn’t really Mike’s scene, but it was dark and scarcely crowded and quiet except for the announcer coming in through the speakers.

It was what he needed after sharing a table with a bachelorette party for the last thirty minutes. He thought they might be celebrities but he couldn’t be sure. They sounded just as entitled and loud as any other celebrity he had run into back in California.

“Did you ever have horses, Mike?”

“Hm?” Mike brought his hand down from where he was squeezing the bridge of his nose and looked over at Peter sitting in the chair next to him.

“Growing up in Texas.”

“Oh. No. Horses cost money.”

Peter gave him a look of apology. Mike hadn’t meant it like that, hadn’t meant it like he was making just another example of how what he had lacked in his childhood was influencing whatever this was now.

“Our neighbor used to have horses,” Mike continued, sounding less reflective this time. “Real pretty ones, but I never rode ‘em; I’m too tall to be on top of a tall animal like that. I get out there on a cloudy day and I’m at risk of becoming a lightning rod.”

Peter laughed. Mike liked seeing made him smile.

“Pete,” Mike said, “I made a little money-“

“We’re supposed to be paying them back.”

“I know, but this is outside of that. Listen, babe, I got a little somethin’ extra to spend and I wanna give it to you.”

“I don’t want it.”

Peter said it like someone was trying to hand him a flyer and not a wad of cash to buy whatever he wanted. He didn’t look offended by the offer, so Mike tried not to be either.

Mike scratched his chin.

He needed to shave, but he kind of liked the scruffiness. Davy definitely liked it; he’d take Mike’s chin in his hand while they were laying on the bed watching TV, bellies full with an expensive dinner and smooth alcohol, and scratch Mike’s stubble absently like he was a dog.

“Mike,” Peter said, “I don’t need much. I already have all I need.”

Sometimes Peter made Mike feel ashamed, like he was failing at being a decent human being or something. And then Mike would regretfully acknowledge that he was making this about himself and that he had only himself to blame for seeing the negativity in Peter’s positivity and then he would feel ten times worse.

“Where are you going?” Peter asked as Mike stood from his chair.

“Come on.” Mike nodded to the door. “I wanna show you somethin’.”

Their shoulders bumped against each other as they walked down the street. Las Vegas got more crowded the darker it got and the brighter the lights pulsed.

Moving to California had been a culture shock for the small town country boy Mike was.

He’d been scared, even after living there for months. He had never really fit in back in Texas and now in California, he was afraid he’d never fit in anywhere.

He’d be alone forever, and that was when Mike realized being alone was what he feared most.

But then he’d made some friends, started a band, and he didn’t feel so alone. Still, sometimes while walking down the California streets, he felt like a stranger because these people lived a lot different then he’d ever seen people live back at home.

He considered it a blessing now because Las Vegas was a whole other level of newness that he felt semi-prepared for now.

There were topless women and men in nothing more than itty-bitty thongs on the street advertising strip clubs. Shady individuals wore sunglasses at night and smoked stuff that smelt filthy. A fight broke out down the street behind them with a shout and more than a bit of bleeding.

So when Mike and Peter’s fingers hooked loosely together, it felt rather tame and sweet but it was more than enough.

The music store on the Strip was surprisingly modest but had an adequate stock of instruments. A few people sat at drumsets and others inspected flashy guitars.

“I thought we could look around for a while,” Mike said when Peter looked up at him. He squeezed his fingers and led Peter around before stopping in front of a rack of acoustic guitars.

They settled their sights on the same one at the same time.

“Golly…”

A sleek, black guitar hung on the wall. It was glossy and clean with gold frets and strings.

Peter whined before face-planting into Mike’s chest.

“ _Damn_ , it’s beautiful.” Mike reached up and unhooked it from the wall. “How’s it sound?”

Peter submitted to the temptation and took it in his hands. He picked across the strings expertly. He strummed up, down.

The sound struck something in Mike’s chest and made something tighten in his throat. It was like a peek into a life that seemed far away in his past. Had they ever been musicians? Or had they always been here in Las Vegas, wasting time and wasting money like nothing mattered?

“Do you like it?”

Peter looked up at him. “It’s gorgeous.”

So Mike bought it for him, and when Peter tried to say he didn’t need it, Mike said, “I know, but you deserve it.”

* * *

Their music had gotten darker.

The melodies and tunes they dreamed up were now were mischievous and lurking, every note shrouded in a cool shadow of mystery.

It sounded fun in a different way, like dark streets alight with neon signs, blood-red wine in crystal glasses, golden light on bare skin.

They hummed new tunes as they wrecked havoc in the Bellagio’s casino, tapped out dangerous rhythms on the green top of blackjack tables, hummed alluring melodies against red dice.

In their suite at Caesars Palace, Davy crooned strange lyrics and Micky beat stalking rhythms out on the coffee table and Mike strummed a prowling tempo on his guitar. Then Peter would come in with a hesitant bassline and the voiced opinion that maybe they could change up the sound to something kind of like what they used to play.

The rest of The Monkees refuted.

They said this sound was better, more dramatic, more _important_ , and Peter furrowed his brow and murmured almost inaudibly under their strumming and humming, “But our music has always been important.”

* * *

It was warm enough the next night for them to take a swim.

The pool at Caesars Palace was stupidly luxurious, framed by marble pillars that were illuminated by golden light once the sun set.

They decided to take the night off considering they were only newly able to bet at the high-end tables. Rather than hitting the ground running, they would ease into it and take all given opportunities to rest, otherwise they ran the risk of losing it all.

They’d gotten to the thinly-occupied poolside at dusk when the setting sun was the brightest on the horizon. Mike took a quick dip to cool off, went back over to their plastic lounger to lay down, slipped on his new Ray-Ban sunglasses and took a nap.

The moon was high above Las Vegas when Mike awoke. He remained hidden behind his dark lenses, however, so he could watch freely his three bandmates tussle in the water glowing with white pool light.

Would he ever get over this hangup? Yearning for three most-likely straight men for the past however many years was kind of a drag. It would be fine if it worked out but what were the chances of that? He didn’t want to ruin what they had- the band, their friendship.

Without them, Mike didn’t know what he’d do.

Micky emerged from the water. He was dripping and his swim trunks, heavy with water, hung low on his hips. Mike was free to stare behind his glasses, though a part of him wanted to groan and curl up on his side away from him so he could stop the ache in his chest.

“Damn, I'm bushed,” Micky said as soon as he was in hearing distance. “You know, I think Davy was trying to drown me, that little weasel.”

“What do you want me to do?” Mike said. “Yell at him?”

“Well if you insist.”

“Davy!” Somewhere distantly in the pool came an English-accented, _‘Huh?’_ “Next time you try to drown Micky, just do it, all right? I won’t accept anything less. Failure isn’t an option!”

Micky slapped the top of Mike’s foot.

He slid in beside Mike on the same lounger and caught Mike’s bicep beneath the back of his neck. Mike shivered but the air was warm and then Micky’s wet form didn’t feel so offensive.

“Have you been working out?”

Mike turned his head to him. “What?”

“Your arm.” He shifted his neck a bit to signal which part of his arm he was talking about. “It’s... firm, or whatever. Ditching the gangly look and picking up a heavylifter’s lifestyle?” Micky winked. “Or just too much free time alone?”

“Shut it.”

Mike grabbed one of the towels off the chair next to them and draped it over his shivery friend.

“Whatcha think about tomorrow, Nez?”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? _Tomorrow never knows._ ”

“You’re hilarious.”

“And I have a wicked taste in music. I’m pretty much the whole package, don’t ya think?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Micky draped a cold, wet arm over Mike’s torso. Mike flinched at the frigidity of his skin but soon acclimated with a wistful sigh.

“I mean what about us playing tomorrow? You think you can get the last of it?”

“We only got a few more thousand till we reach what we owe. And at a high end table, we’d be moving fast in that direction.”

“Can you do it?”

Micky’s fingers absently stroked at the faint trail of dark hair under Mike’s navel as he spoke. He followed it to the waistband of his swim trunks but didn’t dip under. Mike’s stomach muscles went taut but Micky remained oblivious.

“Are you doubting me?” Mike said in a voice sounding mildly stifled.

“I’m just asking. ‘Cause I know you can do it, but I wanna make sure we’re on the same page.”

Mike shimmied his legs, squeezed his thighs together. He grabbed another towel and threw it over his own body and Micky’s hand in an effort to hide the growing physical evidence that this light action was greatly affecting him.

“We’re on the same page,” Mike said. “I don’t think there was ever a time we weren’t.”

Micky snickered a soft laugh.

“From the first time I saw you, I knew. You know that?” Micky said. He was looking at Mike in such a way that was like he was looking into his soul. “You were so quiet… But you didn’t have to say a word for me to know we were on the same page, the same sentence, the same word. I looked at you and I thought, ‘This country boy gets me.’”

Mike smiled.

The first time Mike had met Micky, Micky had smiled at him like how he was right now, bright as the California sun.

Mike had been new to California and that was when he realized the world was so much bigger than him. After a week, the Golden State has chewed him up and spit him out. Mike was tired, dirty, hungry, alone and hopeless, sleeping in shitty pads and spending all day playing guitar on the street hoping for a break.

And then came Micky.

Micky had been the only one to stop and listen to Mike play outside of that rundown diner on the outskirts of LA. He had smiled the whole time and Mike felt seen in that moment, acknowledged and not at all alone, and it had overwhelmed him so much that he feared his voice would crack and he’d break down in tears, so he finished it as an instrumental.

Micky hadn’t thrown any change into his open guitar case. Instead, he offered Mike a place to stay, a place in his life and, ultimately, a place in his heart.

Mike wanted to kiss him. Right now.

He began to lean in a bit, lips parting, eyes sleepy behind his dark lenses, closer, closer-

Mike hissed quietly at the sharp pinch of Micky pulling too hard at a few strands of hair at his waistband.

“Watch it-“

“Mm, sorry,” Micky murmured, pressing his cheek against the hill of muscle on Mike’s bicep. His dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks still host to a few drops of water like stars on his skin.

Mike licked his lips, forgot about what he had wanted to do merely a second ago.

“Tired?” Mike said instead, angling his body ever so slightly toward him.

Micky yawned, nodded. He looked up at Mike with a sleepy but curious gaze, like he’d rather keep his eyes open to watch him than get shut eye.

“You know,” Micky murmured, “your hair gets a little curly after it gets wet.”

“Does it?”

Micky hummed. He reached a hand up to touch the hair at the side of Mike’s head.

“Think it might have to do with the temperature too. It doesn’t get like this right out of the shower, does it?”

“Not really.”

“Mm, you haven’t brushed it. That’s what it is.”

Micky combed his fingers through Mike’s hair gently. He worked out a few tiny knots and brushed it off of Mike’s forehead, let his fingernails scratch across his scalp rendering Mike nothing more than a melted puddle of lovesick pleasure.

Mike had been thinking about home lately. Not _home_ home, but the life he left behind in Texas.

If his parents, his siblings, were to see him now, what would they see? Would they see him happy for once? Successful? Or would they see the same heartbroken, shy failure they had always accused him of being?

Mike bit the inside of his cheek until he was sure he would break the skin.

Why did he care? Why couldn’t he just let it go? Why did he let them continue to hurt him when they were back in Texas and he was here, in Las Vegas, behind expensive sunglasses, with a man who liked good music and who stroked his hair so sweetly?

Micky’s eyes flicked to Mike’s lips. Mike hoped his eyes were truly hidden behind these lenses, otherwise Micky would see the slight widening of his eyes, the focus of his gaze on Micky’s bottom lip.

“Do you ever...“ Micky started but then trailed off. “Never mind.”

“Do I ever what?”

Micky laughed. He shook his head.

“What? Tell me.”

Micky smiled against him. He shut his eyes and when he spoke, Mike could feel his bottom lip dragging against his skin. “Let’s go out for tacos tonight. I saw a joint a few blocks from here that I wanted to try out.”

“Sure.” Mike sighed. “Sure, sure, sure.”

They drifted off into a light doze. Micky’s fingers twitched on Mike’s stomach as Mike rested his cheek on top of Micky’s head.

They both gasped and jumped as soon as they were introduced to two new dripping wet bodies seeking refuge against them.

“Davy!” Micky spat as Davy attempted to lay atop him.

Mike groaned. “Y’all are gonna break this chair.”

“Let’s hope!” Peter exclaimed as he laid on Mike’s chest, and Mike didn’t even have to think, was already opening his free arm to accommodate him.

The four of them sandwiched together with a flurry of curses and huffs. The pool was mostly empty and they were mostly in shadow and no one was looking as they finally nestled quietly and comfortably together.

And Mike thought for a second, yes, if only they could only see him now, they’d see him happy.

* * *

The first time they slept with each other, it felt right.

It happened on a night ending in a total win of more than $15,000. For once they were sharing a single table, or most of them. Peter was positioned behind Mike while Micky and Davy sat to the right of him.

Micky was helping Davy play but it seemed like the Brit was purposely being dense for a laugh and for Micky to fret over him. And Micky did, with adorable groans and hurried hand movements, only to laugh with him once his dealt hand proved unfruitful.

Mike was holding his own more than fine, enjoying Micky and Davy’s antics and Peter’s fingers in his hair where they had trailed up from his shoulder to the back of his neck, stroking and scratching there just barely but more than enough to wake something deep in his chest.

Another winning hand and the final five thousand to their winnings turned ten thousand to fifteen.

The small crowd that had gathered clapped and cheered in drunken accolade. Mike smiled politely, and when he looked over to the three whose opinion mattered to him the most, he saw them looking at him with a quiet pride smoldering in their eyes almost possessively.

They went for a bite to eat at a classy restaurant with a menu they could barely read after that. Davy saved them with his amateur French-speaking skills, ordering them chilled champagne and plates of pasta in creamy vodka sauce.

 _“Très bon!”_ Peter said, beaming in the candlelight once the waiter left.

Davy gaped. “You speak French?”

 _“Oui!”_ But before Davy could awe over him, Peter continued. “I mean, that’s all I know: _très bon_ and _oui.”_

Davy’s face fell. “For a second there I was really impressed with you.”

“Oh c’mon, now,” Mike said without skipping a beat, for some reason feeling exceptionally protective tonight. His cheeks went hot as he continued in a soft, shy, rambling sort of voice and scratched at a drop of sauce on the cotton tablecloth. “Peter’s always been impressive. He plays guitar real well and sings like a dove and writes amazing songs without even tryin’...”

“Peter’s a cat who knows where it’s at,” Micky piped in, chin resting on his hand and a smirk pulling at his mouth.

Mike murmured his vehement agreement.

“I know,” Davy said. “I was just kidding.”

But Peter remained frowning dramatically in mock hurt next to him.

Micky snickered as Davy rolled his eyes. And then Davy was leaning over to his right to brush a fleeting kiss to Peter’s cheek.

Mike’s stomach fluttered. His breath stuttered.

He didn’t say a thing about it but played the image again and again in his mind as he finished his plate.

They stayed long after finishing dinner, sipping champagne and laughing at stupid jokes and playing footsie under the table without acknowledging it.

They caught a small cab back to Caesars Palace sometime later. Mike was the first to enter, but already his height and long, lanky legs took up almost half the space available.

“All four of you!?” the cab driver sputtered. “There’s no room!”

He watched in mild horror as they toppled over each other and landed in the back of his car, tangled together and giggly.

“It’s only a coupla blocks,” Mike said as he took hold of Davy’s slender hips and guided him into his lap to give Micky and Peter some more room.

“We fit just fine,” Davy assured.

Then Micky slipped the driver a fifty and that changed his opinion of how many people could fit in his backseat almost immediately.

They giggled the whole car ride over nothing. They weren’t even drunk; they shared a slight buzz but just being by each other, against each other, on top of each other, had them cracking up.

They were all feeling rather romantic at this point. A more than decent night, a delicious meal, sparkling alcohol, sitting much too close; the collective blush dusting their faces and the heat of their bodies stirred something within Mike. The others must have felt it too because eventually their laughter tapered off and they just stared at each other, lazy and quietly interested.

They fell out of the cab once it came to a stop, an apology hidden somewhere beneath their burst of laughter. They clung and leaned against each other through the lobby and into the elevator.

The metal doors slid closed. It was suddenly intoxicating being in such close quarters. Mike could smell each of them: their detergent, their shampoo, their cologne, their sweat, the slightest bite of alcohol on their breath.

“What’s that on your lip, huh?” Micky swayed up to Mike even closer than he initially was, evidence of being in a particularly flirtatious mood, which looked great on him.

“Hm?”

“You got something right here.” Micky planted his index finger on Mike’s bottom lip.

Mike scoffed but didn’t break eye contact. “No, I don’t.”

“Ya-huh.”

“ _Nuh-uh_.”

“Then what’s that?”

“Your finger.”

“Oh.” Micky swooned with a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. “Silly me.”

They smiled and breathed a short laugh together as Peter and Davy whispered in quiet amusement to one another.

Slowly, Micky swept his fingertip back and forth over Mike’s bottom lip as if he were curious of the smooth texture.

“What’re you doin’?”

Micky’s eyes flicked up to Mike’s half-lidded ones.

“You know,” Micky whispered.

A soft, almost delirious, smile pulled at the corner of Mike’s mouth. Mike breathed a whining groan deep in his throat and leaned his head back on the metal wall of the elevator. “I dunno if you know what you’re askin’ for, though.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for.” Micky was so close now that their lips were almost touching. If only Micky would move his hand… “I know what I want. I’ve known for a while.”

“You’ve been waiting?”

Micky smirked, cocked his head. “Maybe you are as dumb as I thought.”

Mike slid the very tip of his tongue over the pad of the finger at his lip. Micky’s breath caught. His smile transformed into something much more complex: lust, awe, excitement.

Mike wished he could snapshot that look on his face. Micky was usually so smug and confident; to see him so open and raw like this was a victory Mike never thought he would secure.

His eyes fluttered shut as his lips fell loosely closed around the very tip of Micky’s finger. And then, almost simultaneously, Micky’s finger was replaced by his lips.

Suddenly Mike’s whole world was Micky.

All Mike could feel was Micky, warm against him, could only taste him, sweet and delicious, could only smell him, sandalwood and citrus. Micky’s lips moved against his, sucking, licking with a frenzied passion that had Mike testing the durability of his zipper.

Mike was so hungry. Fucking starving.

He threaded a hand in the curls at the back of Micky’s head. He tightened his grip and pulled ever so slightly just in time to plunge his tongue into Micky’s hot mouth.

Micky moaned and clutched at Mike’s shirt, twisting handfuls of the fabric into a wrinkled mess.

They separated with a few softer licks over the other’s tongue, soothing and considerate given their previous pace. Mike’s eyes slid over to where Peter watched, open-mouthed, and Davy stared, wide-eyed.

“Jesus,” Davy muttered. “He’ll drown if you keep it up like that.”

“I can swim,” Micky slurred, lightheaded and blushing now that Mike had let him up for air.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

They stood staring at each other for a tense moment and then they were all exiting simultaneously with a vehemence that got them stuck in the doorway for a second.

Mike couldn’t open the hotel room door fast enough. He couldn’t think. This was happening. Was this happening? Should he tell them that he had always wanted this to happen? With them? Only them? All of them, at once?

“Wait.” Mike stopped his hands on the doorknob. “Are we doin’ this?”

Micky, Peter and Davy blinked up at him before erupting in a synchronized agreement, _“Yes!”_

Mike nodded stupidly and went back to unlocking the door. “Just makin’ sure.”

They nearly fell inside of the hotel room once the door gave way. They hurried to the king-sized bed, falling clumsily out of their clothes on the way.

It was a little strange being together like this. It felt right, of course it did— they knew each other so well— but it also felt so different than those times they had shared beds with women.

Mike had two separate encounters with men, which he didn’t regret but which had left him more lovesick for who he couldn’t have than adequately satisfied.

And Mike couldn’t speak for his bandmates but he had his suspicions.

He had seen what might have been the morning-after evidence in the form of purpling hickies on their necks and awkward introductions to ‘cool cats’ much too early in the morning who all knew how to play guitar and who couldn’t help but put their arms around Mike’s roommates.

All of it had struck a bittersweet feeling in him.

On one hand, it was like a suspicion was being affirmed quietly and in that was a thread of hope, a maybe plausible question of, _‘what if?’_

On the other hand, they were wearing anonymous bite marks on their skin looking painful, inconsiderate and too greedy, and Mike wished he could erase them or at the very least soothe those spots left by whichever wannabe musician had been here last night but wasn’t here now.

Whatever the truth was didn't matter because it sure felt like they knew what they were doing.

Micky kissed him expertly and with his hands squeezing the toned muscle of Mike’s biceps. He didn’t blink at the flat plane of Mike’s chest or the admittedly knobby, awkward juts of his masculine form. Micky even broke away from his lips to kiss and suck at Mike’s Adam’s apple, smirking against Mike’s jaw as he rubbed his lips against his five o’ clock shadow.

This was good. Better than good.

Mike turned his head to where Davy, shirtless and almost burning, pressed against his side. He had to bend down considerably to reach his lips and the incredible height difference made him groan lowly into Davy’s mouth.

Davy wrapped his arms around Mike’s neck as his lips moved with an admirable fervor. He was trembling with anticipation, hips thrusting against Mike’s hip to relieve some of the pressure. And Davy got down to business, _boy did he,_ because then he was tugging Mike’s shirt open and fumbling with the button of his pants.

Mike’s stomach quivered under the spread of ringed fingers, gold bands feeling like ice against his heated skin. His hips bucked up in answer to the bite of Davy’s fingernails digging into his skin.

“How long have you wanted it?” Mike panted against Davy’s temple.

Davy shivered, shook his head.

“Tell me.”

Davy breathed an airy laugh and let his eyes fall closed. “Longer than I’d like to admit.”

Mike tilted Davy’s head up so he could kiss him again.

And while Mike felt like devouring Micky and spoiling Davy, with Peter, he felt like he was being taken care of.

Peter’s lips were like rose petals against Mike’s own. He let Peter cradle his face and guide him to where he needed him the most, let him curl his shoulders around his head and stroke his back as Mike lapped and sucked at his peaked nipples.

And there was a brief moment when Mike let his mind drift to the reality of the situation and what its consequences may be once this feeling of complete love left them, and he tensed but then Peter petted Mike’s face and brought him back up to his lips and whispered to him, _“Breathe, Mike_ . _We’re right here.”_

The next kiss Peter gave him made Mike ache, made his mouth water, made him eager to lavish him, all of them.

That night, they were everywhere. Their tongues tasted like champagne and they were giggly and hot and someone was always saying, _“Lemme take care of you, c’mere, I’ll take care of you.”_

Mike ended up sitting with his back against the headboard, body on fire and voice low. Carefully, he took each of them into his lap and kissed their lips, held their hips and slid into them so deeply that it knocked the breath out of them.

Their newest song was one of soft moans and quiet gasps and sensitive whimpers, a _‘Please’_ fallen from Peter’s lips, a pitiful ‘ _Mike_ ’ on Davy’s tongue, some playful challenging between hard kisses as Micky insisted, _‘More, faster, harder.’_

The lights of Las Vegas glistened below but the sight of each other was much more breathtaking.

* * *

Mike felt stupidly content with the world in the soft afterglow of sex.

The sheets draped over their naked bodies may have been the softest to ever exist, more reminiscent of angel wings than silk. The hum of the AC was a heavenly constant. Peter mumbled in his sleep, soft as poetry. Micky’s breath came as soothing as the Pacific Ocean against the California sand. Davy rested against Mike’s bare chest, fingers dancing over Mike’s heart like he knew of the space carved for himself there.

The evidence of their time together was worn like red and purple badges of honor across their shoulders and throats, proof they had ventured together to a place they had always dreamed of going. Their individual colognes and musk mingled together in a shared scent blanketing the room, intoxicating. They could still taste each other; Mike sucked his bottom lip into his mouth in search of traces of them, lightly dozing with their barely-there essence in at the back of his tongue.

He was so at peace that he barely noticed Davy’s fingers balling into a fist at the center of his chest.

“I don’t know what this is,” Davy whispered, sounding much too vulnerable for comfort.

“What what is?” Mike murmured, half-asleep.

“What we did.”

“Well, I was inside you, and then Micky was too, and-“

Davy slammed a hand over Mike’s mouth. Mike smiled sleepily behind it and pressed a kiss to his palm.

Mike may have been floating in post-coital bliss but it was obvious now that Davy was failing to ride those waves of contentment with him.

Davy looked closer to drowning as he sat up, his knees up under his chin and his arms tight around them.

“Mike, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what?” Mike propped himself up on an elbow. He reached out to him, fingers softly stroking Davy’s spine. “C’mere, come talk to me.”

But Davy didn’t say a word.

He was silent as he crawled over Mike’s long legs and stood from the bed. He slipped on a pair of boxers in the dark and hurried to the bathroom.

Mike’s head was still fuzzy with exhaustion and his body was heavy with relaxation, but there existed at the forefront of his sleepy, sated mind a primal sentiment drudged up by his not so long ago toe-curling orgasm.

It was that instinctual pull inside of Mike urging him to protect, to soothe, to keep warm, to love those three men he had just made love to that had him sliding out of bed clumsily and pulling on his or Micky’s boxers and stumbling after Davy like he was being pulled forward by an invisible magnetism.

The light in the spacious bathroom was dim, a fancy ‘night light’ sort of feature on a timer that made everything glow softly so late at night.

Davy looked gold-plated and small where he sat curled up against the wall. He glanced at Mike briefly, then returned his gaze back down to his lap.

This look was new for him. If anyone could handle post-sex awkwardness, it was Davy. He practically eradicated it with his English charm, making those girls waking up in his bed feel as though the night was one of the best of their lives and that perhaps they really were important in the extensive history of Davy Jones’ one night stands.

To see him like this, unsure and uncertain, was sobering.

Mike approached carefully and sat down on the cold floor in front of him. For a while Davy didn’t speak, didn’t even look at Mike. He twiddled the jewelry still on his fingers like those rubies and emeralds held the answer to whatever was on his mind.

When he finally did speak, it was like a secret between them.

“I can’t do this just for it to be taken away from me.”

Mike furrowed his brows. “Who’s takin’ it away from you?”

“I get it,” Davy said, not answering. “We guys get hot. And we have a little to drink and a little to smoke and we do things without thinking about it but I can’t do it like that this time because I… I don’t know. I just know I’ll be hurt when it’s taken away from me.”

“You mean sex?”

“ _Shh.”_

Mike smiled. “I’ve never seen you like this about, uh, _sex_.” He said it quietly after considering spelling the three letter word out but deciding that would be too juvenile.

“It’s different because it’s you three! And I’ve never done it with a guy. _Guys_. Singular, plural. Doesn’t matter ‘cause I’d never done it before tonight.”

“I didn’t know that,” Mike murmured, drawing a random pattern on the floor with his finger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Dunno. Micky seemed to know what he was doing. Peter’s a natural at everything he does. Just embarrassed to not know what I was doing for once, I guess.”

“Embarrassed? There ain’t no reason to be embarrassed with us.” Mike swallowed. He peeked up at Davy from under his hair in a way that made him look fragile in the dim light. “Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not.” Davy almost sounded offended.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, Mike.”

Mike nodded but didn’t appear entirely convinced. He looked back down to where he drew figure eights with his finger on the tile.

Davy stretched out a leg and nudged Mike’s knee with his foot.

Mike smirked, breathed a fond exhale out of his nostrils.

Davy smiled too but then it was quickly replaced with a rather high-pitched squeak as he slid down the wall, Mike having taken his foot in his hand and lifted it without warning. Davy blushed madly when Mike pressed the sweetest kiss to the arch of his left foot.

“I’ve never taken a person’s virginity- well, you know what I mean,” Mike said against his ankle. “I wish I was more gentle. It’s gonna wear on me that I wasn’t.”

“You were gentle, Mike.”

“Not near the end.”

“Please,” Davy scoffed. “That was nothin’.”

Mike gave one final kiss to his calf before rising. He walked over to the monstrous bathtub against the wall and turned on the faucet. Water rushed out in a comforting _whoosh_ of white noise that echoed off the rock tile.

Mike turned, tall and sleepy and gorgeous. “Get in.”

“What?”

“I can’t go back in time and take care of you like I should’ve, but I can make up for it now.”

“You did take care of me, you wanker.” Davy took Mike’s hand and stood up. He stepped out of his boxers, again using Mike’s hand as a balance when stepping inside of the tub.

The water was perfect. It eased Davy’s muscles, the heat melting away the soreness of his body as he sat down in the steaming water.

_“Ahh…”_

Mike drizzled a complimentary bottle of bubble bath into the water just under the faucet. Thick clouds of bubbles smelling of rose and vanilla grew on the water’s surface. They lapped at Davy’s exposed skin with a featherlight touch, his body flushed and glowing with the temperature, lovingly marked by the mouths of those who had ravished him.

“Are you getting in?” Davy asked.

“Do you want me to?”

“Join me, Mike. The tub’s big as a pool and I’d feel better with you in here as my lifeguard.”

“I’ve never been a lifeguard.”

“You know mouth-to-mouth resuscitation just fine. You proved that, what? Three, four hundred times already tonight?”

“That’s all it takes? Some lip action?”

“In my book it does.”

Mike removed his boxers and slid in behind Davy. He wrapped his arms around him and brought Davy back to lay against his chest.

Never would they have thought they would be in a place like this. It felt like a dream.

They barely knew what to do with themselves.

“What would you have done differently?” Davy asked quietly as Mike’s large hands stroked his slippery chest. “If you had known?”

“If I had known what?” Mike said quietly.

“That no man had ever had me like that before.”

“I would have laid you on your back.” Mike circled Davy’s hard nipples with a light tough before pinching them between his forefingers and thumbs. “I would have used my fingers twice as long. Opened you up for me bit by bit.” His words were low and his lips were hot against the shell of Davy’s ear. “I woulda slid into you so, so slowly. Barely rolled my hips, just let you feel every inch of me, deep.”

A rosy blush bloomed across Davy’s cheeks. He rolled his head against Mike’s chest and squeezed his thighs together as his spent cock began to slowly fill again.

“You’re sweet,” Davy said, fingers blanketing Mike’s still on his chest, “but I like the way we did it.”

They were still wading and caressing and whispering when Peter and Micky padded into the dimly lit bathroom a little while later.

“What’re you doing?” Micky grumbled, eyes squinted. “A bath?”

Peter yawned. “Lucky.”

“Get in,” Mike and Davy said in unison.

They fit just fine in the tub together; it was big enough. But still, they leaned against each other, a pile of Monkees gathered on one end of the tub.

“Why were the both of you up?” Mike asked. “I thought we were bein’ quiet.”

“The bed was cold,” Peter said.

Mike smiled at the genuineness of his answer, at his unique sensitivity.

“Why were the both of _you_ up?” Micky said.

Davy tried to keep Mike quiet with a hand over his mouth again, but Mike held his wrist and spoke around it. “Davy don’t think we love ‘im.”

Mike’s accent was the thickest upon waking up, adorable and melting away that tough persona he had recently adopted. It made them blush, want to reach out and touch him, have him touch them, just want to be near him.

“Even after I’d made love to him,” Mike said, “he still don’t think I love him.”

Davy made a desperate noise at the sad wavering of Mike’s voice. “ _Mike-_ “

“You don’t think we love you?” Micky sat up with the revelation, looking more awake now.

“We love you, Davy,” Peter said. “We always have.”

“I know, I know.” Davy wouldn’t make eye contact. “But something’s changed. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it; I know you do. What we did- it makes it different.”

Peter shook his head. “Love doesn’t change, David.”

Davy blinked roughly. His eyes began to shine and grow redder. He bit the inside of his cheek, overwhelmed with the truth of this feeling of love shared between them.

“Enough talking. No more words.” Micky placed his hands on Davy’s knees under the water. “We’ll show you how much we love you.”

And they did.

With their hands and their mouths against him, all of it making Davy moan and shiver where he laid back against Mike’s chest. And Peter and Micky might have been the only ones touching him but it was Mike orchestrating it, Mike who was allowing them to touch what he considered his.

Were they just going to do this, then? Were they fully going to submit to Mike, let him be their leader in every way? Would it change once they left Las Vegas? Would they ever leave?

Micky came closer. His face was only inches away from Davy’s now. Mike reached out and dipped his thumb into Micky’s mouth just as Micky did something perfect for both Davy and himself under the water.

Davy gasped. His hips began to move of their own accord against Micky where Micky held the both of them tightly in his fist. Acting as the physical bookend to this scene of intimacy, Peter spooned up close behind Micky. He kissed the backs of Micky’s shoulders and the back of his neck and stroked up and down Davy’s legs under the water.

A finger hooked under Davy’s chin, turning his head and then Mike was at his lips.

Each one of Mike’s kisses felt hungry. He licked inside of Davy’s mouth, his soft tongue slipping behind his teeth to curl against the roof of his mouth and make Davy shiver and whine. And when Mike’s mouth drifted under his jaw and to his neck, Davy leaned into the stinging bite of his teeth because it felt beautiful to be wanted so completely.

“You brute,” Micky chided, voice cracking in pleasure, in excitement. He smacked at Mike’s cheek with his free hand, the water on his palm making it sound louder than it was.

Micky turned his attention to Davy. His hand cradled his face, his eyes on the purpling love bite on the side of his throat. “Poor Davy. Mike’s chewing you up, isn’t he?”

Peter hooked his chin over Micky’s shoulder. “He wants to eat him.”

And then Peter’s eyebrows tilted upward and he gave the cutest whimper as Mike stroked his cheek with a tender drag of his fingers.

Micky smirked. “What a monster.”

His grip tightened on the next upward stroke over the both of them, Micky and Davy’s hard lengths pressed together in what was surely a sexy sight under the bubbles.

Davy pressed back against Mike, head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut. “ _Mike-“_

“Right here, beautiful. I’ve got you.” Mike looked up at Micky and Peter. “Be sweet to ‘im.”

“We are, we are.” Micky leaned in to whisper into Davy’s ear, smiling when Mike kissed his forehead as he soon as he within reaching distance. “We love you.”

Davy let out a dry sob of pleasure, of love.

“We do. We love you so much,” Peter crooned. “You’re so good for us, Davy.”

Micky’s hand around the both of them under the water quickened. Davy dropped his head back on Mike’s shoulder, gasping open-mouthed as his hips jutted forward.

“Cum for us.” Mike licked droplets of water from his cheek. “Let go, baby.”

Micky leaned back against Peter, turned his head to speak against his flushed cheek. “He’s so hard, Pete.”

“Is he?”

“I can feel him throbbing.” Micky kissed the corner of Peter’s mouth, smiled deliriously. “It’s so fucking outta sight, babe.”

Micky’s free hand drifted under the water and then further downward, thumb rubbing circles at the center of his balls, pinky slipping under them to sweep over his taint.

“His balls are tight,” Micky said. “He’s gonna cum so much, Petey. He’s gonna be so good for us, aren’t you, babe? _Fuck_ -“

“Wait, hold on!”

The three of them startled at Mike’s interjection. They froze, looking up at him, breathless and twitching.

Mike pointed to his right. “Shoot outside the tub.”

The other three stared.

“What?” Mike said. “I’m not swimmin’ in your spunk.”

It was quiet for a moment, and then they were laughing.

Mike tried to reason with them through their cackling, saying, “C’mon now, it’s gross,” but it mostly went unheard.

Micky and Davy stood on wobbly legs just enough to be above the water with the help of Mike and Peter’s hands on their hips. Revealed, what had previously been hidden; flushed red and so hard, twitching and dripping and aching for release.

Peter looked at them with something like awe, his hands on their thighs rubbing up and down in encouragement.

Micky jacked them together fast and rough. Their spines bent together in response to the pleasure coiling tightly in their guts. They hunched forward, their foreheads pressed together and their bottom lips brushing.

Mike handed Davy a hand towel from the nearby shelf on the wall. Davy stretched the surprisingly soft fabric over their cockheads and the new stimulation set them off at the same time.

They came together with a violent tremor rocking their whole bodies and a sloppy kiss consisting of mostly saliva and tongue.

“That was beautiful,” Peter said. “You’re so beautiful together.”

Mike wanted to clap, but thought it might break the comfortable silence.

Davy wadded up the towel and threw it unceremoniously across the bathroom. They returned to the warm hug of the water where the three of them cuddled up against Mike, who welcomed them with open arms.

“Feel better?” Mike said, his finger stroking the shell of Davy’s ear.

Davy hummed. “I’m hungry.”

Now it was Mike’s turn to laugh.

Peter stood on his knees and leaned over the edge of the tub to grab the leather bound booklet on the bathroom counter. Mike took the opportunity to reach over and fondle his ass.

“You’re insatiable,” Micky grumbled sleepily against Mike’s left shoulder.

“Just gettin’ familiar. Appreciating y’all.”

Micky managed a soft kiss to the side of his throat.

Mike squeezed the sudsy flesh in his hand. His fingers slid down the crease of his ass before dipping in, the very tip of his finger sweeping over his hole.

Peter pushed his ass out with a soft sound.

One part of Mike wanted to come up behind him, bend Peter over the side of the tub, take him by the hips and give it to him deep and hard but another part of himself wanted to wade sleepily here in the hot water with his boys resting against him.

The lazier part of himself always seemed to win.

Mike’s fingertips left Peter’s ass alone, his hand trailing up his back to rub across Peter’s shoulders as he flipped through the hotel catalogue for the room service menu.

“What time is it now?” he asked.

“Midnight,” Micky said.

“Says here that the kitchen doesn’t close till 1:30am.” Peter looked back at them, the ends of his hair wet.

“Would it be terrible of me to get a steak at midnight?” Davy asked.

Mike smiled dreamily, eyes drifting closed. “Get it, baby.”

They ordered room service on the bathroom’s phone, which came as a shock but ultimately as a life saver when none of them wanted to leave the warmth of the tub.

“And, uh,” Mike said into the receiver, “go ahead and bring it into the bathroom when you get here.”

“Why’d you tell them that for?” Davy said once he had hung up.

“I for sure ain’t gettin’ up.” Mike guided their heads to rest on his shoulders and chest once again before settling his head back on the edge of the tub. “Unless one of you wanted to.”

They all grumbled their disagreement and yawned against Mike’s bare skin, their legs braiding together under the warm water.

They jolted awake at the knock that sounded at the front door fifteen minutes later. They shared a mini freak-out as they realized they would soon be seen by a stranger in such a naked and intimate state.

The front door unlocked.

Footsteps approached.

Micky, Peter and Davy took a deep breath together and ducked underwater just as the hotel attendant walked into the bathroom.

“Hello there, sir.” Mike’s voice was muffled for the three hidden under the bubbles. “You can put it right on the floor there. Yeah, right here. I really appreciate it.”

Mike pointed over to where a $20 dollar bill could be found in the pocket of his pants worn earlier in the night currently balled up in the corner of the bathroom when the attendant failed to acknowledge the multiple pairs of boxers on the floor and the barely there smell of sex beneath the rose-scented bubble bath.

Davy, Peter and Micky emerged from the water, gasping deeply and covered with with duds, as soon as they heard the front door close.

“Y’all look like wet rats,” Mike laughed.

And then they jumped on Mike and pushed down on his head and shoulders until he was submerged too.

They ate their meals with their plates perched on the lip of the tub. Micky cut up the steak, took a bite, and then fed each of them a piece from the fork while Mike scooped up cold spoonfuls of cheesecake and fed them to Davy before tilting the glass of wine to his bitten lips.

“Let’s live here forever,” Davy said.

“We’d go pruny,” Peter said.

Mike smiled as he licked the fork clean. “That’d be fine by me.”

* * *

There were still things Mike couldn’t get down with.

Dance clubs eluded him. He didn’t understand them. He was a terrible dancer, pretty much inept at anything outside of square dancing. No way was that wasn’t going to fly here, because this type of dance was mostly gyrating and grinding on whoever was in humping distance.

Call Mike old-fashioned, but he liked to keep his thrusting patterns exclusive to those he bedded.

He had lost Davy and Micky in the crowd; they had booked it as soon as they had gotten through the door. Davy was too short to spot but Mike caught glimpses of Micky in the sea of dancing individuals, most likely being held by the hips by an intoxicated man or woman, or maybe he was the one doing the grinding.

The four of them had slept together a few nights ago. They had yet to do so again, and Mike would’ve thought it was a one and done sort of deal like poor Davy had dreaded but the kisses continued in private.

In dressing rooms, Davy pulled Mike down by his collar and kissed him wild until they were both blushing. In elevators, Micky leaned up against him and let his hands wander under whatever shirt he was wearing, usually settling at his hips, lips kissing his earlobe and teeth nipping at his jaw. In bed, seconds from sleep, Peter would cuddle closer against his arm and press the softest kiss to the side of Mike’s neck.

It was a little confusing to think about what they were. And at times like these, Mike felt so behind.

Because the rest of them were of the more modern belief of free love and new experiences and had no need for labels, but Mike was still waiting for some sort of explanation of what this all meant.

It was probably never coming. Addressing it might put an end to it, and if that was the case, he’d rather keep his questions to himself.

Peter was similarly unsure of how to navigate a scene like this. A better dancer than Mike, sure, but Peter lacked adequate interest in the flashing lights and the obnoxious bass lines pouring through the speakers and shaking the entire room.

He stood next to Mike at the bar, done with his drink but not expressing the desire for another. Peter simply watched over the crowd, but his gaze suggested he was thinking of something else, deep in his own mind, distracted.

Mike slid over a step closer to him.

“Care to dance?” he yelled over the music. Peter looked up at him.

“I was born with two left feet.”

“Nah, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Mike turned toward him. He took Peter’s hands in his own and threaded their fingers together. He bounced on his feet, pushing and pulling his arms rhythmically.

Peter groaned through a wide smile. “You dance like an old man.”

“Old man? You know, I’m a pretty big deal back in Texas. First place winner at the county fair square-dancin’ competition.”

“I don’t buy that for a second.”

“Darn,” Mike said, and they laughed.

The music sped up. The beat grew louder. Mike’s out of touch and out of time dance moves remained the same.

“Not the style,” Mike said with an affectionate smile at Peter, who was currently bathed in purple light, “but we’re gonna make it work.”

They giggled together at the embarrassing relentlessness of Mike’s attempts to dance. Peter humored him; he was a damn saint.

Mike brought their hands between their chests so they were standing closer. He slowed their swaying to a sort of slow dance independent of the scene.

It felt like the two of them could take on the world. They made their own beat, their own pace, in this wild world moving too fast for its own good.

This was where it was at. This was something real.

Peter’s eyes drifted up to Mike’s. He looked conflicted, like he was battling with whether or not to say something.

Mike’s thumb stroked over Peter’s. “What is it, darlin’?”

Peter swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak but suddenly Mike was stumbling one step forward, forcing Peter one set back. Mike turned gruffly to reprimand whoever had pushed them. But then his expression softened considerably when he saw it was Micky, slouching and looking very pale.

“Micky?” he said. “What happened?”

“Air.” Micky grabbed hold of Mike’s shirt. “Fresh air.”

Mike took gentle hold of Micky’s arm and with Peter’s help, escorted him out of the club’s double doors and onto the street.

Under the streetlights and neon signage, they could see just how awful Micky looked.

He was drenched in sweat and heaving ragged breaths. He teetered woozily and pulled at the collar of his loose-fitting long sleeve.

“Chill out, Mick,” Mike said, grabbing the bottom of his shirt before he could fall into traffic. “Hold on, come here.”

Micky made a frightening sound then, something like a guttural screech of great panic and discomfort. A button popped off of his top and landed on the sidewalk. Mike worked quickly to help him peel off his drenched shirt.

Now free, Micky stepped clumsily back until he met the brick wall of the club. He leaned against it and let the night air cool his heated body.

“What happened?” Mike said. “What’s wrong with you?”

Micky lifted his hand, out of breath and a little confused as to what the question was again.

Mike continued to prod for an explanation, trying to get Micky to look at him when his dilated pupils slid distractedly around. Finally focusing, Micky provided the story of how he had been dancing on the dance floor when suddenly some random person was offering him a pill and he took it and swallowed it without asking what it was or what it did.

_“What!?”_

Micky flinched at Mike’s harsh tone. Mike softened and quieted, feeling terrible.

“What do you mean?”

“I took a pill, I- I-“ Micky made a frustrated whine and tilted his head back on the wall. “It’s done, okay? No going back now!”

The club doors next to them opened. Davy emerged, red in the face and damp with the humidity inside.

“There you are! I was looking for you three. Maybe give a guy a heads up next time so you don’t leave without him?” His joking demeanor broke when he got a look at Micky. “What happened?”

“He took something,” Peter said with his eyebrows tilted up in concern.

“He doesn’t know what it was,” Mike said. “Do you know?”

Davy frowned. “Didn’t see it, mate. Sorry.”

“ _Shit_. What do we do? Do we go to the hospital?”

“Hey, now,” Davy said. “No need for hospitals.”

“And how do you know? He’s having a rough time. Look at him!”

“I'm looking, Mike. It’s nothing some water and rest can’t fix. Peter, hail a cab so we can get out of here.”

Peter did as he was instructed and Davy came closer to Mike. His hand tugged on the lapel of Mike’s collar so he could whisper to him, alcohol and weed on his breath.

“Play it cool. No hospitals. We don’t want to get anyone in trouble, all right?”

“I’m cool, I’m cool,” Mike said, though he didn’t feel cool at all.

“It was supposed to be fun,” Micky said as they helped him stand from the wall and walk over to the cab now waiting for them on the curb, “but it’s not.”

Micky wouldn’t stop rambling the entire car ride, so much so that it made Mike both irritated and embarrassed. He shot the driver an apologetic look whenever he glanced back at them, at one time even putting his face in his hand to save himself the obligation of apologizing.

“Don’t be mad,” Micky pleaded, his sweaty hand burning with unnatural heat as he held Mike’s wrist.

Mike sighed into his palm. “I’m not mad.”

“Then why are you doing that?”

“Micky-“ Davy whispered.

“‘Cause I’m worried about you. You’d never do this back home.”

Micky shrugged. “When in Rome. Get it? _Caesars Palace_. Eh? Eh?”

“Hilarious,” Mike grumbled.

Micky assured them he could make it to the room when they got out of the cab, though they hadn’t thought otherwise. But halfway to room, Micky said he was hot, _too hot,_ and tired and the next second he was tripping forward. He would have fallen on his face had it not been for Mike shooting out his hands and grabbing him by the shoulders

“Dammit, Micky!“

“I’m sorry! Sorry.” And then Micky was cackling as Mike lifted him off the ground.

Mike carried him bridle-style to the suite. Davy unlocked the door while Peter brushed the sweaty curls from Micky’s face, an expression of deep concern and a murmur of something Mike couldn’t hear but what he was sure was considerate reassurance.

Micky complained of nausea as soon as they stepped inside. Mike decided to play it safe and deposited him on the floor beside the toilet. He filled a glass with water from the faucet and tilted it to Micky’s lips. Micky sucked it down, then asked breathlessly for another.

“Another,” he asked after his second.

“Another,” he demanded after his third.

After the fourth, Mike refused him, telling him he needed to slow down before he hurt himself.

“One more, Mike.”

“No.”

“ _Mike_ ,” Micky whined and it broke Mike’s heart.

“He’s sweating buckets!” Davy must not have gotten a good look at Micky on the street; he suddenly sounded freaked out or maybe strung out, Mike couldn’t tell anymore. “W- We need to cool him down. I’ll go get some ice!”

Davy pushed past Peter who was standing in the bathroom doorway, staying back only because he was afraid of getting in the way.

Micky shivered and grew pale one second before he bent over the toilet bowl and lost what he had just drank. Mike rubbed his back with one hand and held his own forehead with the other.

“ _‘When in Rome_.’” Mike scoffed as Micky wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and settled back against the wall. “What else is there to do, though, Micky? Blow? Heroin?”

Micky groaned. “Don’t do this right now. I feel like shit.”

“No, no, please, give me a heads up. ‘Cause this isn’t how I saw my night going, so I’d like to be better prepared next time this happens.”

Micky managed a glare. “It’s not about you, Mike. Not everything’s about what you want or what you have planned. Now shut up; you’re freaking me out.”

“And you’re not freaking me out!? You look wrung out! You look half-dead!”

“It’s not about you right now, Michael! Shut your mouth!”

Mike’s hands were trembling at his sides. This felt like a horror movie. He was pretty sure if someone popped in right now and said ‘Boo!’, he’d pass right out on the fucking floor.

He went over to the sink and wetted a hand towel. He wrung it out and brought it to Micky. Micky didn’t reach for it, so Mike kneeled down on the floor and carefully dabbed the sweat from his friend and lover’s cheeks, his neck, his shoulders.

“So this is what’s gonna happen, then?” Micky said quietly as Mike draped the towel over his forehead. “You fuck us and then you get all weird?”

It was like a slap across Mike’s face.

He stood, suddenly feeling light-headed.

“‘Fuck’?” The word fell from his tongue as if it tasted disgusting. “That wasn’t _‘fucking_ ,’ sweetheart.”

“Sure felt like it.”

“You wish it was.”

Micky glared up at him. “Don’t.”

“I don’t regret it, Micky, but apparently you do. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” Micky shouted. “Don’t you dare say I regretted it because I don’t!”

“Hey, what’s going on?” Davy came in through the doorway with a metal bucket filled to the brim with ice. “What’s all this hollering?”

“Good, you’re here,” Mike said. “Now I can go.”

“What? Where’re you going?”

“I gotta get out of here. I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Real convenient timing, Mike,” Davy said curtly.

“Great, now you hate me too.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Get used to it, Davy,” Micky said. “All Nez does is speak for other people, don’t you, babe?”

“Shut up,” Mike said, already halfway out the door.

“Yup.”

Mike pivoted on his heel. He pointed an accusatory finger at Micky, his eyes dark with fury. “You always have to have the last word! I hate that! Because it's not about ‘winning,’ Micky! It’s about me being worried about you!”

“You said you were leaving, so get out!” Davy snapped, voice louder now. “We don’t need you.”

Mike stalled, too shocked to take another step. This whole night was the knife in his heart and now Davy was just twisting it.

“This,” Mike gestured around him, “ain’t it, Micky. And I know you know this ain’t it.”

Peter was sitting on the foot of the bed when Mike exited the bathroom. His brow was pinched as he wrung his hands together in his lap.

He believed in the zodiac. The rest of them didn’t but they didn’t say as much because of how adamant Peter was at times about theorizing their tendencies.

One of the main suspicions Peter couldn’t shake was that Capricorns were the worst at addressing their emotions. Not that they didn’t have them, just that they had a harder time expressing them. He was entirely convinced of this and the evidence against the two Capricorns in their group proved to work against them.

“I’m not the worst with my emotions,” Davy had said. “Ask me how I’m doing and I’ll tell you straight.”

“But if no one asks?” Peter asked, and Davy had given a quiet grumble.

It was true Mike had trouble addressing whatever was on his mind in an effective way. They knew Mike didn’t have much contact to those back at home but they didn’t know why or to what extent.

They didn’t even assume it was bad blood, just that Mike probably had gotten into his own egotistical feelings and felt better than those back home and that it was all some weird, admittedly mean, part of Mike that had him cutting contact with his family to a minimum.

It was Mike’s fault he had yet to go into it with them. He feared what they would say. Probably try to convince him to go back to Texas, maybe even agree with what his father had told him before the old man left his wife and kids for good a few years ago.

He thought he was keeping it well under wraps.

But then the phone rang.

Mike remembered the day clearly. He wish he didn’t. They had just finished dinner and were cleaning up when the phone rang. Mike, being nearest to it and with dry hands, walked over and picked it up.

“Hello?”

He remembered how his heart had stopped the second he heard that gruff voice over the phone.

_“Son?”_

“H-... How’d you get this number?”

 _“Finally got through to you. What’re you doin’ out in California?”_ His father’s tone turned sour then, not a second more of patience to keep up the pleasant act. _“It better not be for that goddamn, shitty music you think you can play. You need to get your skinny ass back home and help your mom take care of your brother and sister!”_

“You’ve been drinking,” Mike growled. “Like always.”

His father continued. _“How in the hell is she supposed to take care of those kids when you’re all the way in California doin’ nothin’ worthwhile with your life!?”_

Mike shook his head. He wanted to hang up, to slam his hands over his ears, but the guilt he still carried of being a bad son kept him on the line.

Somewhere in the kitchen, Micky teased Davy and Davy shot back with a quip that had them both laughing.

But Peter. Peter had spotted him.

He took a cautious step closer to Mike, his smile dying on his face as he gauged the severity of the conversation.

“D- Dad, listen. Listen! When do I look after myself? When?”

“ _Not when your mother is still lookin’ after two kids! You’re always talk about ‘bein’ a real man.’ Well let me tell you how you be a real man- do what you’re supposed to do and take care of family!”_

Mike’s face twitched. “Don’t talk to me like that-“

“ _I can talk to you however I want. I made you, boy. You listen to me.”_

Peter was right beside him now. He didn’t dare try to touch him but the gaze he gave Mike was one of quiet support, of a soft love, a reassurance that someone was here, in his corner, ready to help as soon as he said he needed it.

“If you’re such a ‘real man,’” Mike hissed into the phone, “then where are you? Huh? You’re a hypocrite, Dad. Leavin’ your son to do what you should be doin’!”

_“Shut your fuckin’ mouth! You’re a stupid fucking kid! You don’t know the shit I have to go through day after day! You don’t know what it takes out of me having a good for nothin’, worthless, piece of shit for a son!”_

Mike slammed the phone down into the cradle.

His vision was a blur. The sounds escaping his throat were inhuman, pitifully hurt and panicked. He didn’t know where to go, what to do. He made a clumsy little half-step in this direction and then that one, so short and sharp that it seemed like he might fall over.

And then Peter had wrapped his arms around Mike’s shoulders, had guided him to his shoulder with a hushed whisper and a hand holding the back of his head.

Mike hadn’t been able to stop shaking. He felt far away, like it was all a surreal dream he was having.

A nightmare.

But Peter had been that beacon through the confusion and hurt. Mike could remember just how warm he was and how he had smelt of laundry detergent.

So much blood was rushing behind his ears, Peter’s voice sounded as if he were underwater.

“It’s not true,” Peter had whispered against his ear. “He can’t hurt you. You’re safe, Michael.”

Mike’s hands scrabbled clumsily at Peter’s back, his breath quick against his shoulder.

He vaguely remembered how Peter had picked up the phone, asked the operator who had just called them, told them to never allow that caller in through their line again, but could clearly remember how his feelings of upset had quickly replaced themselves with ones of the deepest love.

Peter was looking at him now with love in the lamplight. His hands stilled. He rose and then he was reaching out to him with the desire to take Mike into his arms again and hold him together, to whisper soft reassurances and truths and pure love to him.

Mike couldn’t deal with this right now.

It was too much. He thought he might explode into a waterfall of emotion and never again be put back together if he succumbed to Peter’s warm embrace and soothing voice.

Mike took a step back. He trembled, terrified.

“Michael-“

“Don’t, Peter. _Please_.”

Mike’s voice cracked on the _‘Please_.’ He kept his eyes on the floor as to not show their bloodshot wateriness.

Peter lowered his arms. He sat back down and didn’t say a thing or reach for him, but he watched with an expression of hurt as Mike passed.

Downstairs, Mike started a tab at the bar and told the bartender to keep it open.

He downed hard liquor exclusively, no use in wasting time with beer. On his third jack and coke, his mind began to wander to the very thoughts he was trying to run from.

Maybe they didn’t like him. Maybe they never had. Maybe they had liked him at one time, only to come to hate him once they discovered who he truly was.

Which possibility hurt the most?

Maybe all Mike was good for was making money and buying them things they didn’t need. And when they took mysterious pills from strangers’ hands, he was to keep quiet and tend to them without an opinion at all.

Was he being a dick?

He felt scared. Because, really, anything could have happened.

Was he overreacting?

Or were they just going to pretend this was normal? Sweating on bathroom floors, getting sick off of some unidentifiable poison, laughing about it and pledging to do it all again, because hey, this was life now?

When had it turned to this? Had it always been like this?

Mike ordered two more shots and drank them back to back.

When he got back to the room hours later, all the lights were out. The AC was on a lower temperature than it usually was and a chill blanketed the room and shook Mike to his bones.

“Mike?”

Peter’s hushed voice came from the direction of the bed. Mike squinted his eyes against the darkness and could barely see Peter’s silhouette as he sat up. There was an empty space reserved for him on Peter’s left.

On his other side, Davy slept curled against Micky, who slept with the blanket pulled up to his waist but his bare torso exposed to the cold air. The ice bucket was on the bedside table. The towel was still draped on Micky’s forehead.

“I was waiting up for you,” Peter whispered.

Mike didn’t take a single step toward him. “Go to sleep, Peter.”

The room returned to silence as Mike stumbled across the floor, falling onto the sofa unceremoniously. Mike curled up with his back to them and his arms hugged around himself.

That night, he didn’t dream of anything.

* * *

Mike felt like shit the next morning.

His mouth was dry. His headache was getting worse. Thankfully the curtains were drawn but they glowed with the midday sunlight.

The shower hissed behind the bathroom door. Mike looked over his shoulder to find the bed empty other than Micky, sleeping on his side.

What was there to do now? Apologize? Pretend it didn’t happen? Have a long talk about it?

All of that sounded terrible.

Mike wished they could go back in time and never have gone out. They could’ve gone swimming again. They could’ve slept together.

_‘You fuck us and then you get all weird?’_

Mike ran his hands down his face.

“Mike?” Micky’s voice was gravelled and rough. Mike barely spread his fingers and peeked through the narrow spaces.

“Hmm?”

“Are you up?”

“Not really.”

Micky lifted his head, disheveled and bleary-eyed. “Did you sleep on the couch last night?”

“Yeah.”

Micky made a sympathetic humming sound high in his throat before falling back onto the bed. He patted the space in front of him. “Come lay down over here.”

Mike wanted to still be mad but the way Micky beckoned him with a gravelled voice broke Mike down.

He slid off the couch and into bed with a sigh. They didn’t touch but they could feel the warmth of the other where they lay a foot apart.

“I’m sorry,” Micky said.

“I’m sorry, too,” Mike said.

“I was fucked up.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“It’s out of my system now. Whatever it was.”

Mike tried not wince at the reminder that last night they had been battling an unknown enemy.

“Do you feel better?” Mike said.

“Mostly.” There was a pause as Micky frowned. “I don’t want you to sleep on the couch anymore. My mom used to make my dad do that. Before they got divorced, of course.” Micky shook his head, the expression on his face making it obvious that it was something that really bothered him. “If you’re mad, know you still have a bed. Okay? Just… promise me you won’t sleep on the couch.”

Mike turned to look at Micky. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

Mike was nearly asleep when Micky spoke again.

“I don’t regret it.” Micky’s eyes were closed. His words were slow with almost-sleep. “I don’t regret you making love to me, Mike.”

“Okay,” Mike whispered. “Okay.”

They napped for about twenty minutes before rousing together.

The shower was off but Peter and Davy weren’t around. Probably went to go get a bite to eat or something.

Mike hummed inquisitively at the feeling of something prodding his crotch. He looked down to see Micky’s hand holding him over his clothes in a way that seemed possessive, a gesture that made Mike shiver with the implication.

Ever the gentleman, Mike assured Micky he didn’t have to do that, that his apology prior was fine enough.

“I wanna,” Micky murmured. He slid down the bed so his face was level with Mike’s crotch. “You look so hot when you wake up.”

Mike sure as hell hoped that whole altercation last night wasn’t Micky’s idea of foreplay because Mike couldn’t handle it if it was. His heart would break before he managed to even consider an orgasm.

Micky’s slid a hand under his shirt, his fingers splayed across Mike’s stomach.

“C’mon, Nez.” Micky sucked a kiss beside his navel. “Get hard for me. Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

“‘m always hard for you,” Mike mumbled, his head already swimming.

Micky smirked against his hip. He nipped at the skin beneath his teeth, licking apologetically at the reddening marks left behind. He unbuttoned and unzipped Mike pants, pulling them open but not pulling them down.

He trailed his nose down the hard outline of Mike in his boxers, lips closing momentarily around the head through the thin fabric. Micky pulled down the elastic waistband, revealing his cock, curved upward and red. He was bigger than all of them, Davy of course being the smallest, and Micky having more girth than Peter. But Mike had an inch or two on Peter and Micky’s five inches.

Hard and twitching, it looked rather intimidating.

But Micky didn’t scare easily. He beamed with pride because Mike was hard for him, said he always was hard for him, and he wasn’t lying.

Micky kissed the side of Mike’s dick before suckling at the vein. He followed it up to the smooth head and flicked his tongue where a drop of precum beaded at his slit.

Micky’s lips went loose and Mike’s dick slid easily into his mouth and to the back of his tongue.

It was slow and lazy, the both of them still a little groggy and heavy with sleep. Micky bobbed his head almost too slowly, tasting Mike’s skin, his precum, tongue swirling as to offer stimulation and some kind of relief to him when he was so hard. Mike was so hot against Micky’s tongue and vice versa.

“I- I want…”

Micky let the engorged flesh slip from between his lips. He licked with a flat, searing tongue up the underside of his dick and asked low and sultry, “What do you want, baby?”

Mike propped himself up on an elbow. “I want this everyday.”

Micky coughed a laugh before sliding back down on him.

“I don’t mean a blowjob everyday. Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind it if you wanted to or if Davy or Peter… _Ah!_ Y- You get it. Geez, you’re driving me wild, Mick.”

Micky pulled off just enough to speak. “Stop talking.”

“All right.” And Mike fell back on the bed.

Micky swallowed around him and increased the suction. Mike clenched his ass and rolled his hips so he sunk deep in Micky’s throat.

Micky gagged. Mike groaned.

“You gonna swallow it?”

Micky hummed around him.

Mike’s eyes rolled back in his head as he came hard down Micky’s throat. His fingers left their tight grip of the sheets to stroke Micky’s hair, hold his face, caress his cheeks softly while the rest of his body went rigid, skinny hips shunting forward in short jabs that had him balls deep in Micky’s mouth.

Mike’s spent cock slipped from Micky’s mouth. Micky licked his swollen lips, eyes falling shut, and giving a small gasp as he rolled his hips against the bed.

“Come up here,” Mike whispered and pulled him up with his hands under his arms. Mike slipped his fingers under the back of his pants and underwear and tugged them down just under the curve of his ass.

Mike squeezed the round flesh and smirked when Micky answered with a rut of his exposed cock against his side. A translucent trail of precum smeared across Mike’s pale skin, hot and sticky.

“You wanna cum?”

Micky nodded. “Yeah.”

“Was that a stupid question?”

Micky laughed against Mike’s shoulder. _“Yeah.”_

Mike took Micky’s hot prick in his hand. Squeezing a bit tighter, he could feel Micky’s pulse throbbing along his length. He stroked him from base to tip, wrist twisting and tightening around the slick head.

Mike stroked once, twice, three times more and then Micky was finishing with a broken moan and a thick rope of semen shot across his stomach.

“There you go, darlin’,” Mike said, accent thick.

They didn’t clean the cum off of Micky’s skin until much later, too preoccupied now with the other’s mouth against their own. Mike sucked the tip of Micky’s tongue and rubbed the cooling spunk into Micky’s skin in small circles with his calloused thumb.

Davy and Peter returned from lunch downstairs sometime later to find Micky and Mike curled up together on the bed, sleeping with their mouths open and their hair greasy and the both of them smelling of sex.

Whatever tension that had been between them was gone after that.

They didn’t directly talk about what had happened that night, but acknowledged they had said things that weren’t true and that had been intended to hurt the other.

Mike admitted he shouldn’t speak for others.

Micky expressed zero interest in taking unknown drugs from strangers ever again.

But when Davy and Micky decided to go back to the club, Mike stayed behind. Peter didn’t really want to go, but he knew that in this case, Davy and Micky needed him more than Mike did.

* * *

For some reason before their payment, Mike felt sick.

He splashed some water on his face in the bathroom and tried his best to catch his breath. A few odd times, he bent over the toilet and dry-heaved.

“Are you okay?” Micky asked when Mike emerged ten minutes later, a little pale and shaky. They were all in suits. They only vaguely looked like themselves, more like outlines of who they truly were.

Mike nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Just ready to get this over with.”

They arranged the stacks of money they had accumulated from their wins into the suitcase provided to them by Horace’s company. They had been instructed that once it was full, they were to call the number embroidered on the inside of it and say the word, _“Pineapple.”_

In response, a time and place to get into a car with tinted windows. As the clock ticked down as they stood in a shadowy corner at the end of the Strip with the suitcase, it became harder for Mike to seem as cool and collected as he wanted to.

He ended up resting his head on Micky’s shoulder in the backseat of the car. Micky put a hand on his knee and whispered into his ear, “What’s wrong, Nez?”

Mike didn’t answer. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was wrong. He didn’t want to think about how everything suddenly felt so wrong, so broken. He nestled into Micky further and Micky held him with a gentle hand on his cheek.

The car pulled up to an empty, rundown parking lot outside of the city limits some time later. Three suited men stood waiting for them, their sleek limo behind them.

The Monkees exited the car. The handle of the suitcase was slick with sweat from Mike’s hand.

“We meet again, boys.” Horace blew smoke from around the cigar in his mouth. “Let’s see it.”

Mike approached slowly, each step making his head thud with a rush of blood making him deaf and dizzy. He tried his best to steady his hand as he handed Horace’s henchman the briefcase.

The grunt popped it open, displayed it to his boss.

“This is all of it?” Horace asked. “$80,000?”

Mike swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Horace scanned his dark eyes over the green contents.

“So it seems.”

He smiled widely and waved the suitcase away. Horace spread his arms out.

“Why the long faces? C’mon, no hard feelin’s!”

 _Easy for them to say,_ Mike thought.

“Come party with us,” the Horace said. “That’ll cheer ya up. Let’s celebrate you keeping your word.”

And although Mike was exhausted emotionally and physically, he felt as if something bad would happen if they passed.

At an underground speakeasy, The Monkees tried to drown any reservations they had in expensive alcohol and shots of hard liquor. Davy and Micky succeeded, but Mike struggled. He didn’t know where Peter was, just hoped he was okay.

The sick feeling had not left him. It settled at the bottom of his chest, below his heart, making the world a very scary and sad place.

Mike looked around and saw the once faceless bogeymen that had dangled promises of violence, and possibly death, above their heads to be enjoying themselves as they partied, some of them catching his eye and waving to him before laughing with each other, surely about him.

Their stay in Las Vegas seemed out of control all of a sudden. Everything felt wrong now that it was over.

“I’m gonna go.”

Mike whipped his head to where Peter was now standing at his side, a hand on his bicep. Mike leaned down a little to hear him better.

“Huh?”

“I’m gonna go back to the hotel.”

Mike furrowed his brow. “Are you okay?”

Peter smiled at him tenderly and reached a hand up to hold Mike’s cheek. Then he was turning away and walking in the direction of the exit.

Mike felt lost as Peter left. There was that dreaded feeling again, the same one he felt after moving to California.

He didn’t know whether to cry or scream, didn’t know if he wanted to sink to the floor with the beer bottle in his hand or run out after Peter with a plea for him to somehow make this all better.

Someone made a toast that Mike mostly missed. It was lost amongst the loud music that made his heart race and his nerves shot.

Mike, suddenly feeling vulnerable, searched for Micky and Davy in the crowd. He found them at a red booth by themselves, guzzling back alcohol.

They looked up as he approached. Their eyes nearly crossed as they swayed. “Mmike!” Davy slurred. “Haf a drink, babe!”

Mike shook his head. He swallowed his panic and nearly choked. “Let’s go.”

“Wha?” Micky asked.

“We’re going back to the suite. Let’s go.”

“Right now?” Davy said with a frown.

“Right now. Hurry, hurry.” Mike took hold of their shirts, pulling them out of the smooth leather booth and onto their feet. He held their hands in his own and pulled them out the door, Davy and Micky tripping but thankfully not falling behind him.

“Where are we goin’!?” Micky asked once they were outside.

The street was relatively empty but the nearby restaurants and businesses still had on bright lights to show they were open. Peter was nowhere to be seen; Mike could only hope he was back at Caesars Palace.

Mike flagged for a cab. An all black vehicle, perhaps even the one they had taken earlier, rolled up quietly.

“Hold on, we’re leaving?” Davy said, as if suddenly realizing what was happening. “I don’t wanna leave!”

“We’re not leaving, Mike! We just ordered sum more drinks-“

“I can’t leave y’all here,” Mike said, desperate. “It’s dangerous, all right? These are the same people puttin’ the hurt on us the whole time we’ve been here. Things could go south with this crowd and we’re not gonna be here when it does.”

They didn’t hear much of what Mike said; the alcohol was making their heads spin.

Davy and Micky tried to fight Mike as he guided them into the car, a task that proved more difficult than herding cats. Every time Davy struggled against his arm with a vicious expression or Micky spat out that Mike was a jerk inches away from his face, that he was a stick in the mud, a constant ruiner of both the night and the fun, it felt like a barb in Mike’s heart.

“No,” Mike murmured, voice cracking as he finally got Davy into the car, “please don’t do this. I wanna protect y’all, there’s no reason to say hurtful stuff like that. You don’t mean it.”

“You better believe I do!” Micky shouted.

“Okay,” Mike mumbled. “Okay.”

It was awkwardly quiet in the back of the cab. Davy and Micky leaned against Mike’s shoulders but they were still annoyed at their fun being cut so early.

They fell out of the car, Davy falling onto the sidewalk. He shoved away Mike’s hand as Mike went to help him up. As soon as they entered into the lobby, Micky and Davy walked past Mike in the direction of the downstairs bar.

“We want a drink,” Micky huffed.

“See ya later, man,” Davy spat without even looking back at him.

Mike didn’t chase after them. He watched as they went, finally feeling his heart twist and start to fracture in the places it hurt the most.

Drunken talk had never really affected him, or that was what he told himself. His father used to drink. Most of the time, he drank too much. Sometimes he said things to Mike no father should ever say to their son, and he had tried to forget the feelings of inadequacy and hurt that those words had left him with.

Davy and Micky’s words clouded his head more than any of the alcohol he had ingested.

Mike knew he should have been rejoicing that this mess was all over. No more debt, no more worrying about paying off underground criminal organizations.

But now that he was outside of the situation, he was finally frightened by the trouble they he had been it. It had been dangerous and they had been carrying on like none of it mattered. Davy, Micky, Peter- they could’ve gotten hurt.

And it would’ve been all Mike’s fault.

Mike tried to catch his breath in the elevator but to no avail.

He felt halfway to puking, halfway to passing out, most of the way toward dying. He stumbled down the hall, battling with the lock on the suite’s door and then he was tripping over his own feet as he entered.

The soft strumming of a guitar met him.

Mike approached slowly, panic not gone but put on brief hold until he could identify the gentle sound drifting toward him.

He stepped past the end of the hallway and took in the sight before him with teary eyes.

Peter sat on the large bed, cross-legged and in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. He held his acoustic guitar in his lap, not his new one that Mike had bought him, but his old one that he had brought from California. His blonde hair fell like a curtain over the side of his face where he wore a peaceful expression.

He didn’t look up from the strings as Mike carefully approached.

“ _Find me in my field of grass,_

_Mother Nature's son,_

_Swaying daisies sing a lazy song beneath the sun.”_

The words were warmer than the sunshine, softer than the wind. It reminded Mike of something else he had forgotten about himself but which was preserved in Peter.

Mike wanted to return to that quiet serenity that felt like home.

He needed everything to be okay.

Mike closed the space between them with clumsy footsteps, crawling on all fours across the bed when he got there. He fell forward, his head landing in Peter’s lap, and promptly burst into tears.

Peter faltered for a second as if waking from a trance, a single note stuttering in surprise but he recovered quickly.

The song took on a new gentleness, a new warmth, a new love. It became a hush of words reserved for Mike alone, a lullaby for him trying to convince him that it would all be okay even when right now everything felt so broken.

Peter finished the song in a soothing whisper that unraveled all composure in Mike’s being so he was nothing more than a puddle of feelings in his lap. He set his guitar aside and then his slender fingers were threading through Mike’s dark hair.

_“I'm right here, Michael. I’ve got you.”_

Mike squeezed Peter’s kneecap as he choked on sob after heartbreaking sob. He needed someone to hold him, someone to take care of him; he was so tired.

Peter did all those things as he continued shushing and soothing Mike and reminding him of how much he was loved, _oh_ , he was so loved.

But Mike shook his head because it was all a facade, wasn’t it? This relationship was only viable here in the fantasy they had made together in a make-believe palace.

“No, hush,” Peter pleaded softly. “Mike, you are loved. You are surrounded by love. I love you.”

Mike sputtered, whimpered. “I- I-“

“Shh. I know, sweetheart. I know.” Peter stroked the backs of his fingers down Mike’s wet cheek. “Michael,” he said, “I think it’s time we go home.”

Mike tried to speak but all he could manage was a hiccup and then he was breaking down again.

Thankfully Peter was there with an expression of gentle love on his face and a hand cradling Mike’s face.

Some time later but without Mike really calming down, drunken yammering could be heard down the hall. It grew louder as the door opened and closed with a bang that made Mike flinch and hide further into Peter’s lap.

 _“Mike?”_ Davy.

“What happened!?” Micky.

They already sounded like they were sobering up from the sight of him. The bed creaked beneath their knees as they moved onto the bed and Mike squeezed his eyes shut tighter and grappled at Peter’s soft pants in a silent plea for Peter to protect him.

“What happened?” Micky was frantic. “Peter, Peter what happened? Is he hurt? What the hell happened?”

But Peter didn’t speak for Mike, didn’t question him, didn’t try to drag it out of him. Instead, he held Mike’s head to him and said so soothingly, “He’ll be okay, but we need to be here for him right now. He needs us.”

Davy and Micky joined them in bed. They pressed kisses to his shoulders and neck and face, whispering to him that it was okay, he was okay, _darling, love, oh Mikey, shh…_

And when the bed creaked, Mike, still a little tipsy, reached out blindly for them and muttered a wet and pathetic plea of, “Don’t leave me, please, _please_...”

“We’re not leaving,” they assured with cracking voices and when Mike peeked open a teary eye, Davy was wiping his own eyes and blinking rapidly.

Micky settled on his side facing Mike. He threaded their fingers together and kissed Mike’s knuckles in between admissions of love and apology. Davy clung to Mike back as the ‘big spoon’ but feeling more like a koala, sniffling between his shoulder blades and mumbling terms of endearment quietly.

Peter’s fingers continued to stroke up and down the side of Mike’s neck, the softest hum on his lips lulling an exhausted Mike to sleep.

* * *

Mike didn’t remember getting under the covers. He didn’t remember taking off his shirt or his shoes either.

But then he began to remember how he had felt like shit, had felt absolutely broken when Micky and Davy had fought with him, how softly Peter had crooned comfort.

Mike sighed.

The right side of the bed was cold and empty. On his left, Davy snored with his mouth ajar. Micky was tucked into Davy’s neck with his arm thrown over his chest.

Mike sat up carefully as to not move the bed and ran a hand down his face. Just then, the bathroom door opened in a cloud of humid fog to reveal Peter standing with a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair damp.

“ _Hey,”_ Peter mouthed silently as he exited the bathroom. Mike nodded.

He rose from the bed feeling sore but mostly rested. He made quick work of the toilet and sink and was already finished brushing his teeth when Peter rejoined him, dressed, in front of the mirror.

“How are you this morning?” Peter asked.

“Better, I think.” Mike turned toward him and leaned back against the counter. “It’s still too early to know.”

“But right now?”

“Swell.” Mike looked down. “Peter, I was meaning to talk to you. We can go to breakfast and we can talk about it there. Pancakes make everything better, I think.”

Peter smiled softly. “I think so too.”

Mike stood from the counter. He closed the two foot space between them, hands cradling Peter’s waist. Mike leaned down just as Peter tilted his chin up, their lips joining together in a gentle kiss that breathed the love he believed to lacking back into Mike.

Davy and Micky had yet to move. They were still sleeping deeply when Mike came to stand at the bedside. He bent over them and rubbed a gentle hand up and down Davy’s bicep.

“Hey, guys.” Davy and Micky groaned as they scrubbed their eyes and squinted up at him. “Me and Peter are going downstairs for breakfast. We’ll be back soon.”

David furrowed his brow, a sleepy frown pulling at his lips. His voice was groggy as he asked, “Are you mad at us?”

“No, no.” Mike brushed Davy’s hair from his forehead and tucked it behind his ear. “I just need to spend some alone time with Peter. You can go back to sleep. I’ll bring y’all back somethin’.”

“Mm, that sounds good,” Davy said. “Thank you.”

“We’re sorry, Mike,” Micky whispered. “We’re so sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine, Mick.”

“It isn’t though.” Micky’s bottom lip trembled subtly. “I don’t know what’s happening to us, Mike. I don’t like this.”

“Hush, now,” Mike said. “It’s done. You’re sorry and I forgive you. That’s all there is to it. I love you, Micky.

“I love you too, Mike. So much, man.”

“I know, babe. We’ll be okay, Mick, I promise.”

Micky’s eyes fluttered shut as Mike pressed a kiss to the corner of his eye. And then they were both back to sleep again, snoring and dreaming of things that made their fingers twitch.

Mike and Peter went downstairs to the little restaurant serving breakfast next to the casino. They ordered a breakfast special each and talked about their favorite movies over pancakes and eggs, which led them to talk about their favorite books and that led them to tell stories about when they were still in school.

“Mike,” Peter said after his laughter over Mike’s senior prank story subsided. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Mike wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at the table, fingers resting beside his plate.

“I wanted to apologize to you.”

Peter’s face fell into an expression of concern.

“Not for crying, I hope. Mike, it’s more than okay to cry-“

“No, not that.” Mike swallowed. “I’m sorry for this… gambling stuff. The name brand crap. The money. That’s not me. I changed because of it, and so did Micky, and Davy. But you… you never changed. You didn’t lose yourself. It must’ve been so hard to see us like that. Buyin’ things we didn’t need when we needed to pay back the debt. Drinkin’ too much. Makin’ asses of ourselves. You were right, Peter. You’re always right. I was doin’ all that to make up for stuff I didn’t have when I was younger. Sometimes I did it because in my mind, I was showing my dad that, ‘Hey, I made it. I am someone. Maybe not the son you wanted me to be, but I’m someone without you. Stuff doesn’t show that though. I’m still angry and hurt even with all this.” Mike leaned forward with a wince. “These boots hurt too!”

They both laughed and when Peter smiled, it felt like everything was fixed for just a second.

“You’re a better man than me,” Mike said. “You always have been. You always will be, honestly. I'm sorry I put you through this, Peter.”

Mike reached over to wipe away the single tear trailing down Peter’s cheek.

“Oh, Pete-“

“It’s okay. I’m okay, Mike. I’m just… really glad. There were times I was scared I would lose you three. Sometimes you felt like strangers.” Peter wiped his eyes, smiled. “I'm not upset, Mike; I’m happy that you’re back. I missed you.”

Mike stared at him. This sentiment was transcendent. It felt near biblical. Mike didn’t deserve it at all, but instead of fighting it and insisting on further beating himself up, he accepted forgiveness gracefully.

“I love you,” Mike murmured, so raw and truthful that it felt like he had just exposed his actual heart.

Peter smiled. “I’ve always loved you.”

And that was true; Mike had always felt as much.

* * *

Back in the suite, the four of them made love again.

Mike took Peter first. It was slow and soft and they were kissing for most of it. At one point Peter’s eyes filled with tears and Mike shushed him and kissed them away with a murmur of, “I love you. I love you so much.”

Next, Mike crawled over Davy who was lying on his front on the bed. Mike threaded his arms under Davy’s biceps and held him tight as he grinded his hips against him. This was a degree gentler than he had been when Davy had ridden him and Mike promised in a whisper, “Imma take care of you, darlin’,” all the while Davy babbled incoherent pleas of penetration.

Near to Davy’s release, Micky had come up beside Mike and was biting his ears and jutting his hips in his direction, whining, demanding his attention as Peter tried to calm him with fingers stroking down his chest and circling his nipples.

“Micky, be patient,” Peter urged. “He hasn’t forgotten you, just wait for him.”

By the time Mike got to him, Micky was whining for it. “Oh, _c’mon_ , cowboy,” he huffed as he spread his legs. “I've been waiting forever. Hurry up and get inside me.”

“Spoiled brat,” Mike growled playfully against his neck as he sank into him.

Micky lifted his arms above his head, wrists crossing as he pushed his chest out. He smiled mischievously up at Mike. “Damn right.”

Mike gave it to him good, not at all as rough as Micky would want but it was what they needed. Deep, hot, the both of them feeling the other so fully and close. Davy and Peter lay on the bed on either side of Micky, showering him in affectionate kisses and caresses across his chest.

“Look at him.” Micky held Mike’s cheek. “He wants to cum inside, don’t you, babe?”

Mike whimpered as he leaned into Micky’s hand. It was a little embarrassing. Mike just couldn’t shake the desire to sink so deep into someone, to mark them from the inside out, to still be inside of the ones he loved long after they’d separated.

“I know where you wanna cum,” Micky said. “Not in me- no hard feelings! Give it to him, handsome.”

Mike pulled out of Micky, shaking, and crawled over Peter once more. Peter wrapped his arms around Mike’s sweaty shoulders and pushed the damp hair from his forehead and whispered to him encouragement as his thrusting became erratic.

“P- _Peter-_ “

“I’m right here, Mike.”

Mike buried himself as deeply as he could into Peter and lost it. His vision blurred. His mouth fell open. He collapsed over Peter, blanketing him with his slender figure. Whole body shivers worked down his spine and ended with spasms of his hips forward, each one weaker than the last and accompanied with another broken whimper.

He didn’t think he’d ever cum so hard.

Mike came back to the feeling of soft lips peppering his face. His mouth was still open as he panted shaking breath, and then there was a soothing flick of a tongue at his top lip, another behind his teeth, a kiss here, there.

There were lips at his shoulder too, and the side of his neck.

“Has he landed back on Earth?” He could hear Micky’s smile.

“Mm, I think so.” Davy scratched gently down his back, up, down.

“He’s back,” Peter whispered, his thumbs on Mike’s cheeks and his lips pressing a peck to the tip of his nose. “He’s right here.”

Mike grunted stupidly.

They kissed again, deep and intense.

Peter broke out into goosebumps at the trickle of spunk out of him once Mike pulled out. Mike wrapped an arm tightly around his waist, kissing his temple, his cheek, keeping him so close and safe in his protective, post-orgasm haze.

* * *

On their final night in Vegas, they watched the Bellagio fountain show.

The sun was setting as they leaned forward against the stone railing. Their luggage was already in the Monkeemobile but they decided for a final send off.

Peter stood at his left, close enough that his forearm was pressed against Mike’s. Davy was at his right, tucked into his side, and on the other side of him, Micky.

A comfortable silence fell over them as the sky turned lilac and the golden lights under the water illuminated the fountain into a glowing beacon.

Mike drew in a deep breath and he felt the weight that had been hanging on him the entire time they had been here finally lifted.

“Mikey,” Micky said. “What did you mean when the other night? When I was sucking you off.”

Davy arched a curious eyebrow. Peter smirked.

Mike hung back by his arms, hanging his head to hide the blush warming his face. “Agh…”

“No, no, don’t get shy. I’m not making fun of you.” Micky pressed a kiss to his cheek. “What did you want everyday?”

“Well,” Mike started, “I was thinkin’ about the slogan here. Right? ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’” Mike looked down at the water. “I don’t like it. Not at all. ‘Cause I think what happened here wasn’t all bad. The stuff between us, I mean. That wasn’t bad to me. That was… better than good.” Mike swallowed. “I want the three of y’all close to me everyday. I don’t want y’all to think just ‘cause we’re leavin’, that I feel any differently. This thing between us, it doesn’t have to stay here if we don’t want it to. I want y’all to know that.”

Mike looked up to see the three of his bandmates staring at him. A sudden cold sweat rolled through him.

“U- Unless you feel differently, then that’s fine. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. We can leave it behind, get in the car and just say sayonara, good riddance, see ya later. Y’all just say the word and we’ll forget all about it-“

“Mike.”

“Mhmm?”

“Stop talking.”

Mike bit the tip of his tongue. Micky placed a hand on his wrist, light but grounding. “Why leave it behind?”

“Yeah,” Davy said. “I’m sure we have room for it in the car.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” Peter said.

The fountains burst with music and light. Towers of water jettisoned upward and rained back down in a cool mist dusting their fronts.

The four watching the show came closer together. Mike’s hand on the railing was soon blanketed by three more.

Definitely tested and tried for past few weeks, but Mike couldn’t help but smile at the new strength of their union. He could feel it in their fingers and the warmth they fostered and grew together. Mike squeezed their hands and his heart stuttered when they squeezed back.

The fountain show ended and The Monkees took a bow because this was the end of their own performance. This was the end of one chapter, but another awaited just around the corner. They slid into the car with the love they shared safely stowed aboard and set in the direction of California and of a new day, together.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr: @marasamoon


End file.
